


The Pact

by onthesurface



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Joffrey and Littlefinger and Ramsey are all in jail, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, as they should be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthesurface/pseuds/onthesurface
Summary: Jon needs investors for his new clean-energy VC fund. Sansa wants to be the next Kappa Delta Pi president at Columbia. They discover that they can help each other.Or:The modern/fake-dating AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 47
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More than anything else, this is an ode to New York. I hope you’re all staying safe and healthy during these trying times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than anything else, this is an ode to New York. I hope you’re all staying safe and healthy during these trying times.

Sansa has just picked up her spoon to dig into her parfait when Imani—tall, lithe, ambitious and one of the few people Sansa trusts completely at Columbia—nudges her arm.

“Incoming,” Imani murmurs, head nodding discreetly at a guy picking his way through a maze of tables towards them. He sports a backwards baseball cap and a Kappa Epsilon Gamma T-shirt. Sansa groans internally. She knows exactly what’s about to happen.

“Hey ladies,” he greets them. “Brett Olson.” 

“Nice to meet you, Brett,” Imani replies. She sprinkles the subtlest hint of a tease in her voice, and Sansa knows it’s for her benefit, rather than Brett's. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Evidently, Imani finds the direction of this conversation much more amusing than she does. 

“Imani Renaud and Sansa Stark, right? Sansa, I think you were in my Lit Hum freshman year,” Brett says, and if there was any doubt in Sansa’s mind about where exactly this conversation was going before, there certainly isn’t any now.

“Right! Yeah, wow,” Sansa says. She gives him her best smile. She does actually remember him from that class two years ago, now that he’s mentioned it. He’d been one of a whole pack of frat boys, who’d smirked and raised their eyebrows at each other when she’d first introduced herself. Columbia had gotten used to her eventually, but the first few months had been tough. Brett had always been cordial enough though, Sansa supposes, and so she does her best to keep her expression light. “How’ve you been, Brett?”

“Good, good,” he responds. “And hey, you look great, by the way. I’m glad you’ve gone back to your natural hair color. Red looks good on you,” he rambles. He winces slightly, realizing he’s overstepped. He charges on. “Anyway, I just wanted to stop by to say that we should, you know, grab lunch and hang out or something sometime. Catch up. The whole nine yards.” 

Imani, ever so polite, has turned to shake up her green juice with the pretense of tuning out the ongoing conversation. But Sansa knows her friend is hanging onto every single word, the amusement sparkling in her eyes betraying her mirth entirely.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Sansa smiles. She takes a breath. This next part is the bit she absolutely has to nail. “Oh. You know what, though? This is terrible, I know, but I’m actually super busy this semester. I’m taking six classes, planning Kappa cup, and organizing the debate society’s tournament this month. I honestly don’t know when I’ll be free. Maybe I can get back to you after I’ve looked into my schedule a bit? Or maybe next semester would be better?”

Not to be deterred, Brett says, “Yeah, keep me posted. If a spot opens up in the next week or two, let me know, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Sansa says. She adds, “It was so nice to see you again, Brett.” She gives him a final smile to let him know the conversation is over, before she turns back to her breakfast.

“See you around, Brett!” Imani calls after him cheerily. When he’s gone, she leans into Sansa’s line of sight, raising an eyebrow. “Look at you, Miss Popular. We’ve been back at Columbia less than a week and you’ve already had, what, three guys approach you?”

Sansa rolls her eyes as she digs into her parfait. “It’s not like they’re asking me out for _me_. It’s literally only because they know I might be the next Kappa Delta Pi president. They’re just trying to shore up their positions with our sorority.” 

“Okay, well, first of all, cut it out with this ‘might be’ bullshit. You’ll most definitely be our next president, let’s make that clear. You’re a shoo-in. Secondly, that might be part of it, but you’re also smart, accomplished, and hot as hell. Those things alone make you the most eligible bachelorette on campus, especially now that _I’m_ off the market.” Imani emphasizes her point with a dramatic flick of her braids.

Sansa laughs, a retort already on her lips, and they move on.

…

After parting ways with Imani, Sansa decides to treat herself to some light shopping downtown. It’s the first Friday back after all, and she doesn’t have any classes for the day. She might as well go and enjoy herself and the city before it gets colder and her workload starts to pile up.

She ponders Brett Olson on the train, or rather, the series of Brett Olsons she’s faced the past week. 

_This could be a serious issue before the election_ , Sansa thinks. While she’s certainly not new to occasionally turning people down, from strangers in ratty dive bars to the country club type, who conveniently developed an interest in her after public opinion shifted back in her family’s favor, she knows that there is more at stake than simply an uncomfortable social situation this time around. Each rejection is a potential blow to the relationship between her sorority and the suitor’s fraternity. And unfortunately, any blow is one too many to risk. The politics of dating drive Greek life at Columbia. Relationships between organizations take years to cultivate, but can break down in an instant. 

Sansa knows that her sisters don’t mind her aversion to being a part of that system _too_ much—though it may have acquired a certain reputation after being considered the “top” sorority for so long, Kappa Delta Pi has truly been a supportive, uplifting community for Sansa. Her sisters were there for her during her first year at Columbia, at a time when she was still adjusting to a new world, reeling from what had occurred that summer, and needing friendly faces when it felt like the whole school stared and whispered wherever she went. She could only spend so many hours a day holding her head up high, face impassive. The Kappa house became a safe haven for her, and still is. 

Consequently, the last thing Sansa wants is to let her sorority down. Yet, in her current situation, it’s almost impossible not to. After having served as a pawn for so long, Sansa wants nothing more than to stay above the fray. For the rest of Greek life at Columbia though, “playing the game,” diplomacy through relationships, is an integral part of any bid for presidency. Her reluctance to do so comes off as either naivety or plain insolence, most likely both. Sansa knows that the only way to staunch the friction is by finding some way to remove herself from the game entirely. 

Still mulling the issue at hand, she hops off the train at the next stop, and climbs back out into daylight. 

Sansa marvels at the city around her. This is her third year as one of its residents, but it still takes her breath away. She loves this part of Soho, with its Renaissance Revival architecture and broad, open streets. She’s just turned onto Fifth Avenue when someone calls her name. 

“Sansa! Sansa Stark!” She winces at the mention of her surname, as other pedestrians around her glance at her curiously. They take in red hair, a four hundred dollar dress, the Saint Laurent bag on her shoulder, and lean into each other to whisper, eyes still trained on her. It’s a scene she’s all too familiar with, so she turns, assuming she’ll have to politely but firmly tell an overzealous journalist to get lost. 

Her heart lurches when her eyes land on the offender. 

“Jon?” Sansa breathes the name of the man standing before her like a prayer, and looks at him like he’s a ghost. It’s been more than seven years since she’s seen him last, and while his appearance has understandably changed during that time, what really catches her eye is what’s remained the same. Her eyes wander from his dark curls to the crease of his brow to the curve of his nose. _Home_ , her heart sings. _Home, home, home_.

She’s not sure who moves first, but in a rush, she’s scooped up in his arms, and the city around them fades away. She lets herself be enveloped, breathing him in, digging her head into his shoulder. For a moment, an instant that is infinitely long and over, all at once, it’s just them. Her mind, always racing, is still for a change, and only her heart beats.

A passing taxi honks and brings her out of her reverie. 

“Wow,” Sansa says, smiling, eyes trained on Jon as they step apart, some piece of her worried that if she blinks, he’ll disappear. “Look at you! Look at your hair, look at your beard!”

“Never mind me, look at you!” Jon replies, and Sansa’s cheeks turn a shade pinker. He’s smiling too, something Sansa remembers being so rare when they were children together. “You’re a full-fledged adult. I can’t believe it. Last time I saw you, you were decked out in Uggs and Aeropostale.”

Sansa laughs, cringing at the memory. “Don’t remind me.” She breaks his gaze. Disbelief, happiness, and whatever else she feels is replaced by guilt as other memories bubble to the surface. “Jon, I—I’ve always wanted to apologize for the way I was to you back then. I treated you like shit. I know it’s probably too little, too late, but I’m truly sorry.” She’d taken after her mother, not understanding why and even a little suspicious of how her father, her brother, and even Arya, poured so much time and love into the unkempt and forlorn boy from the side of town they rarely ever went to. 

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Jon says firmly. “It wasn’t like I was doing my best to be good company either.” 

“Will you forgive me anyway?” Sansa asks, eliciting a laugh from Jon.

“Alright, I forgive you.” He pauses, and Sansa feels the ramifications of the events of the past seven years coalescing between them, neither one of them knowing quite where to begin. 

“How are you? How has the adjustment been, to, well, to life as a—” The word Targaryen can’t quite make its way out of Sansa’s mouth. Jon, their Jon, her brother’s friend, sister’s confidant, and father’s protege, comfortable with blending into the background, who’d always loved hiking and fishing and the country more than any city, is a Targaryen. She’s still shocked. Her and Arya are far from close, but they’d cried together over the phone when they’d found out. 

Jon deflates slightly, and Sansa immediately regrets bringing it up. “It’s really something.” Jon lets out a laugh devoid of any humor. “I’m actually here to get outfitted for my first ever tux for a gala tonight.” He points at the boutique formal-wear shop he’d rushed out from. An attendant stands at the window, peering at them, his arms crossed. “I should actually head back. He seems to be waiting for me to finish up.” 

“Would this be the benefit for Doves of New York?” Sansa asks, surprised. She’d been invited too, by a friend who’d graduated from Columbia at the beginning of the summer.

“Yes, actually,” Jon says, his eyebrows crinkled together. “AJ Ajayi invited me. Why?”

Sansa laughs at that as Jon looks at her inquisitively. She’s always found the New York elite’s circles far too small, and this is concrete proof of that. 

“AJ, Derek Zhang’s boyfriend, AJ, right?” Sansa asks, and laughs more when Jon nods, unable to help herself. “Funny how life works. Derek invited me to their table. It looks like you’ll be stuck with me for the night.” 

Jon smiles, and Sansa, still unused to the expression on his face, is awestruck for a moment. His smile reaches all the way up to his eyes, and the world seems a little brighter because of it. “I’d like that, actually.” He quickly adds, “Besides AJ, I think you’ll be the only other person I know there.” 

“Sir?” Jon’s sales attendant calls from the door, and they both turn toward him. “Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but would you like me to set your things aside for you?”

“That’s alright, I’ll come back in to check out in a minute,” Jon replies. He returns his gaze to Sansa, giving her a helpless shrug. “Sorry to cut this short, but I should head back.” 

“Of course. Go ahead. I’ll see you tonight.” Sansa says. She’s become an expert at tackling these gatherings alone, but knowing Jon will be there still eases a weight she’d never even known she’d been bearing. Sansa watches Jon head towards the shop—a stranger, really, but one she trusts entirely. It’s not something she can entirely explain. All she knows is that, despite the difference in miles and experiences between them the past seven years, she knows he’s on her side, and she’s on his. 

Jon’s at the door when he pauses, turning back to face her. “I can give you a ride to the venue tonight, by the way, if that’s something that’d make your life a little easier.” He says, a bit sheepishly. “I’m still getting used to this whole ‘having a driver’ thing, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we made a stop at Columbia on our way.”

“Oh no, thank you.” Sansa replies, mortified. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Jon insists. “Really, I want to.” When Sansa hesitates, he adds, “Consider this payback for the time Robb and I went to a Patriots game instead of driving you and Jeyne to that One Direction concert.” 

“Oh my god! Fuck you for bringing that up.” Sansa laughs, before adding, “If you’re sure it’s not too far out of the way.”

Jon waves her off. “It’s nothing, seriously.” 

“Thank you, Jon.” 

Anytime,” Jon replies. “I’ll text you.” 

He turns back inside. She watches him converse with the sales attendant through the window. People ebb and flow around her but she remains rooted on the spot for a beat too long. She pinches herself once, just to verify that she isn’t dreaming. Then she collects herself, continuing on her own way and marveling at the power of this city to work its own will. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos, bookmarks, and comments! I know that the premise of this fic is kinda wacky, and I really appreciate your interest and continued readership :) Also, I’m so sorry that this took so long! 
> 
> Some things worth mentioning:  
> \- I’ve outlined the whole fic and it should run around 21 chapters or so.  
> \- I plan on alternating between Jon and Sansa’s POVs every chapter.  
> \- I’ve already introduced a bunch of OCs and probably will continue to, sorry! It’s because Jon and Sansa literally live in a society (like that meme, y’all know what I mean?). Most of them will only appear once so it’s totally okay if you forget all about them. I will remind you who they are in the notes in a chapter if they’ve appeared before.  
> \- Uncle Benjen is just Jon’s uncle in this fic, since Jon and Sansa aren’t related.

Golden hour has just begun when Jon arrives at Columbia. It’s his first time in the area. He’s only been in New York for a couple of weeks, and during that time, has mostly stuck to Nolita, where he lives, and Greenwich Village, where he goes to business school. He peers out of his window at the warm brick buildings, their copper roofs coated green with age, the sun’s rays filling the streets in-between, and he gets it. He totally gets it. Sansa has wanted to attend Columbia since she was old enough to talk, and now he can see why.

His chauffeur brings the Tesla up to Sansa’s apartment building, a block away from campus. It’s a stoic building, steeped in New York tradition, with a classic green awning stretching out over the sidewalk and a doorman standing guard outside. 

With a jolt, Jon is reminded of a show Sansa used to love, about a group of young, scheming socialites living in the city that would always be on in the background when he visited the Stark house. He’d hated that show. But now, he’s living it. It’s hard for him to wrap his head around that.

Sansa steps out past the doorman, and for a moment, Jon forgets how to breathe. The sun’s rays catch her silver evening dress in full force, and it takes all his willpower to tear his eyes away from her—the way her dress clings to her frame, the curve of her collarbone, the part of her hair.

 _That’s Ned Stark’s daughter. That’s Robb and Arya’s sister_ , Jon reminds himself, panic welling up in his throat. _She’s practically family to you_. His brain is fully aware of the fact, but his body betrays him. 

He hops out of the car to meet her. She gives him a hug—her chin burning his shoulder, her arm searing his upper back. He’s overpowered for a moment, faced with her smile, her perfume, the way his name sounds in her mouth as she greets him.

He clears his throat. _Pull yourself together, Snow_ , he thinks. 

“You look great,” Jon says, mustering the strength to give her a weak smile before stepping aside so she can slide into the car. He follows her. “This is Ivan, by the way,” he adds, referring to his driver. “Ivan, meet Sansa.”

While Ivan and Sansa exchange pleasantries, Jon tries to regain control of himself. He lets the passing scenery slow his heart rate and tries to salvage some sense of decorum. He’s particularly upset with himself because he’d reacted similarly earlier, when he’d first spotted her through the window, sweeping down Fifth Avenue, a girl on a mission. Looking at her had _hurt_. It was the damndest thing. He’d chalked it up to not recognizing her at first. After all, it’d been years since they’d last seen each other. But he has no excuses now, and he knows it. 

Bottling up his emotions and quashing them has never been his strong suit, but he needs to do exactly that now. Sansa is completely, totally, irrevocably off-limits.

“So…” Sansa says, and feeling her eyes on him, Jon turns to meet her gaze.

“So,” he repeats, willing his eyes to remain on hers, and not wander anywhere else.

“So, what brings you to this gala tonight?” She asks, diving straight to the point. “I wouldn’t have imagined it to be your sort of thing.”

“No? What do you think my ‘sort of thing’ is then?” Jon questions, unable to keep himself from smirking a little as Sansa’s cheeks and chest pinken. “Chopping firewood? Sleeping in the mountains?”

“Are either of those things that far off?” She asks, gazing steadily at him, not backing down one bit. Her poise is incredible. _It’s going to be a long night_. “Last I heard, you were a park ranger out in Alaska, and a happy one at that.” 

“I was,” Jon admits. “Then two lawyers showed up at my door and pronounced me a Targaryen.”

“You could’ve said no, though. You could’ve told them to fuck off.” 

“I could’ve,” Jon concedes. Sometimes he does want to just pack up and fly back, and pretend that this was all some fever dream. “But I realized this was a chance for me to actually do something. We’re so close to a climate catastrophe, Sansa. And I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to keep that from happening.” There was only so much he could accomplish though, as a 24-year-old park ranger based out of a studio apartment in Anchorage. Bearing the Targaryen name means having the resources to get things done on a scale he never could’ve even imagined before. 

“What do you have planned?”

“I’m going to start a venture capital firm to fund clean energy startups,” he replies. Pouring money into as many different ideas as he can with the hope that at least one will stick is brazen, and perhaps even foolish. He knows that. But it’s the best path forward. 

As it turns out, however, Rhaegar Targaryen planned for such a possibility during the creation of his will. Jon’s share of cash and other investments is getting disbursed to him slowly over time.

“So that’s why you’re in New York,” Sansa concludes, leaping ahead to connect the dots. “Because you need to fundraise, and this is where all the money is. This gala is a chance for you to network.” 

“That, and business school at NYU,” Jon adds, with a wry smile. “Shockingly enough, a bachelor’s in environmental studies from University of Alaska doesn’t automatically make me qualified enough to run a VC fund.”

Sansa shakes her head slightly, her lips quirked upwards in a half-smile. “You know, Jon, I’m impressed.” 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he replies, taken aback. He’s not used to her being nice. 

Sansa nods solemnly. She hesitates, her eyes searching his face. Jon can feel a “but” coming, and he wants to laugh. _Of course._ “Listen, Jon, I do feel like I have to warn you—it’ll be difficult. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about clean energy or venture capital, but I do know what the people here are like. The fundraising part will be hard. This city is built on relationships, and seeing as you don’t have very many yet—”

“Mr. Snow, we’re here,” Ivan says, cutting Sansa off. Jon looks out to see the St. Regis, with its lush, red carpeting and glossy, gold-framed doors. The entrance is packed with other gala-goers, polished and prim in their formal clothing, making their way inside. 

“You’re right,” Jon admits. “But I still have to give this a shot, don’t I?” 

Sansa laughs humorlessly. “You don't have any other choice.”  
  


… 

They’re led up to a reception room. An audible murmur of overlapping voices can be heard before they’ve even stepped inside. Jon’s jaws clench. He steels himself for battle. 

People are scattered in small groups all across the room, holding glasses of champagne and gold-lined plates of hors d’oeuvres. Jon is immediately reminded of the events held when Ned Stark was the governor of Maine. This is a tick more ostentatious, but Jon supposes that’s just the difference between New York City and New England. 

Jon can’t help but feel a little indignant, as he takes in the scene before him. He knows what it’s like to barely have enough to make ends meet, and these people, in their thousand dollar ensembles, are just spitting in the face of all those barely getting by. _And at a charity event of all things too_ , Jon thinks, before trying to push his irritation down. _I need them, I need them, I need them_ , he reminds himself. 

“Sansa!” A slender, impeccably-dressed man strides towards them, forcing Jon from his thoughts. 

“Derek!” Sansa exclaims as she embraces her friend. “Oh my god, look at you! You look great! Clearly, being an investment banker isn’t taking its toll on you at all.”

“Oh god, don’t mention investment banking. It’s the worst. I’ve slept six hours total in the past two days,” Derek complains, rolling his eyes. “But never mind me, look at you in that dress!” His eyes finally land on Jon, at whom he raises a neat eyebrow. “And who’s this? I didn’t know you were bringing a date.”

“Oh, he’s not my date.” Jon tries not to take how quickly Sansa corrects Derek personally. “This is Jon Snow. He’s my—” Sansa pauses, turning to appraise Jon, uncertainty in her eyes. He’s sure that same uncertainty is reflected right back from him. “He’s an old friend.”

Jon sticks out his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Oh, believe me, the pleasure is all mine,” Derek says, as he takes Jon’s hand. For the briefest of moments, Derek’s eyes dart across Jon’s face, measuring and ascertaining. Then his expression is schooled and warm once more. A few months ago, Jon wouldn’t have even noticed. Now, he’s come to expect people to do exactly as Derek did. He assumes they’re searching for the Targaryen in his features. He doubts they find it. “My boyfriend literally won’t shut up about you.” 

As if on cue, AJ—tall, lean, charismatic, and confident—cuts into their conversation, handing Derek a flute of champagne. “Hey Jon, hey Sansa.” AJ says, clueless to their previous conversation. “Didn’t know you guys were dating.” Before Jon can correct him, he leans in to give him a conspiratorial wink and whispers, “I’ve already done a sweep of the room. Lots of big hitters here tonight. Should be good business.”

“Don’t be crass, AJ,” Sansa chides jokingly. 

“I _know_ you’re only here to chat up a bunch of lawyers, you hypocrite,” AJ teases, before he jerks his head towards the center of the room. “Seriously though, we should split up and get talking. The clock is ticking.” 

A waiter cuts in to offer Jon champagne. By the time he looks back up, Sansa, AJ, and Derek are gone, flowing into conversations like water. Sansa has joined a small band of merry-looking women, who fold her in seamlessly. Derek is chatting with an elderly gentleman, leaning in to hear him better. AJ, brimming with smooth confidence, has approached a large group, injecting himself into their conversation effortlessly. 

Jon looks at the throng before him, trying not to feel ally-less. He adjusts his bowtie absentmindedly, unenthusiastic about his prospects. 

“New to the circuit?” A man asks Jon, giving him a sympathetic smile. He’s balding, with shaky hands and a thick gut, but his sharp, discerning eyes belie his years. 

“That obvious, huh?” 

“Nothing you’ve done wrong on your part, young man,” he says. “I’ve just been around for far too long. Strangers stick out like a sore thumb. Dale Gagnon, by the way.” He holds out his hand to Jon, and Jon takes it.

“I’m Jon,” Jon responds. 

“Do you have a last name, Jon?” 

“Snow. Jon Snow.” 

Dale’s eyes widen in understanding. “Jon Snow-Targaryen.”

“Jon Snow is fine,” Jon replies. 

Dale’s eyes narrow slightly at Jon’s defiance. Jon can feel his ears redden under Dale’s scrutiny, but he manages to meet the older man’s gaze evenly. 

Finally, Dale smiles, choosing to ignore Jon’s temerity. “Well, it’s so great to meet you, Jon. You know, your father was such a good man. Rhaegar and I did quite a few deals together, back in the day. Smart guy, funny too.”

Dale looks at him, eyes twinkling and conspiratorial. Jon wonders why all of his late father’s acquaintances, business partners, and whatever else, always act as if he’s been let in on some inside joke. Jon spent years wondering who his father was, yearning for him. He thought that if he knew, he’d have the closure he so desperately needed, that his life and his world would crystallize and fall into order. He thought he’d know himself better. 

Now, he does know who his father is, but none of that self-actualization has happened. Instead, Rhaegar Targaryen is still a stranger, an abstract concept buried six feet under, presence in the shape of absence, and nothing anyone tells him about the man brings him any closer to him. 

“So what brings you here tonight? And don’t say charity, because we both know that’s bullshit.” Dale says, jerking Jon out of his reverie. “What does Rhaegar Targaryen’s heir do for a living? Banking? Law? Business?”

“Well, I—” Jon hesitates, suddenly unsure of himself. He’s had a pitch prepared since he stepped out of that airplane from Alaska, but under Dale’s piercing and expectant gaze, a friend of his father’s, an insider, he feels unexpectedly small. “I’m interested in starting a VC firm to provide capital to startups building clean energy solutions,” Jon blurts out.

“Really.” Dale says. Jon doesn’t miss how the twinkle in his eyes evaporates instantaneously. He shifts uncomfortably. “Forgive my surprise, it’s just not something I’d expect of a Targaryen, given how much your family has profited off the oil industry.” 

Jon’s mouth snaps shut, as Dale’s words ring in his head. _The Targaryens are in the oil business?_ He feels totally blindsided. He supposes there’s a lot he doesn’t know about his father’s family. Actually, all of his knowledge of the Targaryens comes from Wikipedia and what he’s heard through the grapevine. Whenever he’d pressed the lawyers handling his father’s will too hard, they’d shut down entirely. All he knew was that the Targaryens made their fortune in the banking business. Targaryen & Co. was on par with the likes of Goldman Sachs and JP Morgan, but the actual details of the business were fairly secretive and vague, much more so than any other bank.

Jon feels miserable, but Dale doesn’t even give him the chance to wallow. 

“Anyway,” Dale continues, “I’m just curious—what sort of financial experience do you have? VC firms aren’t something you start willy-nilly.”

Jon blinks at Dale, caught off-guard by the older man’s directness. “Well, actually, I don’t have any yet, but I’m attending NYU Stern for an MBA at the moment to build that experience, and I’ll recruit a knowledgeable team that can—”

“You don’t have _any_ experience _at all?_ Well, that’s a bit ludicrous, isn’t it? Most people have to do their time in investment banking, business school, and as an entrepreneur before they can even _think_ of applying to a VC firm as a grunt, let alone founding a VC firm, I mean—”

“Sorry for interrupting.” Jon feels a hand squeeze his arm. He turns, coming face-to-face with Sansa. Her eyes aren’t trained on him but on Dale, blazing with cold fury. “And eavesdropping too, I suppose. But Mr. Gagnon, didn’t you become CEO—of your father’s firm I might add—when you were only in your early thirties? Didn’t everyone say that you were too inexperienced for the position? Doesn’t Jon deserve a chance to prove himself just like you did? Shouldn’t he get to learn and grow on the job?” Without even pausing to take a breath or let Dale respond, Sansa adds, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. Gagnon, I’d like to speak with Jon, privately.”

Jon is totally speechless. He barely manages to sputter out a hesitant goodbye to the older man before Sansa is steering him away, walking briskly. 

“ _Holy shit_. Where did that come from?” Jon whispers, incredulous. The bite in her voice, her total disregard of social decorum, these are things Jon’s never seen in Sansa before, especially directed at someone so socially prominent. _It’s kind of hot_. He quickly pushes _that_ instinct down.

“He’s not worth it,” Sansa declares under her breath, her eyes still burning, even as she smiles and waves at a couple a few yards away. _Where did Sansa learn to become such a good actress?_ Jon wonders. He already knows the answer—Washington DC. “Trust me. He’s an oil baron based out in Houston and is only here because he married a New York socialite who he cheats on all the time anyway. Plus, he donated huge sums of money to that super PAC fueling the absolutely ludicrous theory that my dad killed Robert Baratheon.” 

“Fuck.” It’s a lot to take in. He can’t wrap his head around most of it, but one thing he does understand now is why the man turned hostile the instant clean energy was mentioned.

“Forget about Dale Gagnon,” Sansa urges. Her eyes are on him now, filled with an earnest intensity that he could live and die for. “Please. I can introduce you to someone far better than him anyway.” She finally stops marching, now that they’re a sizable distance away. “Do you want me to?” Sansa hesitates. “Only if you want me to.” 

Saying no feels like an insurmountable task for Jon, not when he’s looking directly into her eyes. “Yeah, why not? Things couldn’t go much worse than they just did.” 

“Think of what just happened as a trial run,” Sansa says, brightening up immediately at his acquiescence. Her eyes skim the people around them, before settling on a man accepting a plate from a server. She nods in his direction. “Mike Alperin. He was the king of private equity for a decade, absolutely infamous and totally ruthless. He must’ve always had a little conscience on him though, because one day, he just up and left. He wrote all of his partners a letter condemning the system, packed up his things, and moved his family upstate to a big house on acres and acres of land. I think he spends most of his time gardening now, though I honestly wouldn’t know. He’s a recluse. He only comes to these things because his wife makes him.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Jon replies, only half-joking.

Sansa's eyes bore through Jon. “Tread carefully around him, Jon. He can be a bit testy. Brutally honest too—it’s jarring. If you can get him on your side though, I think he’d be so helpful.”

Before Jon has a chance to even respond, the man spots them, flagging Sansa down. “Sansa Stark! Long time no see.”

“Hi Mike.” Sansa smiles. “There’s someone I think you should meet.” She steps aside slightly, giving Jon’s arm a squeeze. “This is Jon Snow, and I have a feeling the two of you just might get along.”

“It’s good to meet you, Jon.” Mike says, holding out his hand for Jon to shake. “You know, I gotta say, your reputation precedes you, Jon. Even I know who you are, and that’s really saying something.” 

Jon doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He doesn’t really know how to respond to any of this. “Well, hopefully I can live up to that reputation.” 

Mike grimaces. “I don’t know about that. Your father and his family dabbled in many different things, a lot of which caused more harm than good.” 

Mike adds, a bit breezily in Jon’s opinion, “No offense meant, of course.”

“None taken,” Jon replies, though he does feel a bit unsettled by how polarized opinions on his newfound family seem to be. Just in these last two conversations alone, he’s seen two opposite ends of the spectrum of Targaryen sentiment. And he’s sure he’s only barely scratched the surface. 

“So,” Mike claps his hands together. “I’m not known for being a particularly good conversationalist, which means that Sansa’s brought you to me for a reason.” Mike turns to Sansa, giving her a chance to jump in. The expression on her face betrays nothing. She merely smiles politely back at Mike, forcing him to turn back to Jon. “Whatever it is, I have to warn you that I doubt I’ll be of much help.”

“Obviously I can’t speak for Sansa, but I was hoping to chat with you about the VC firm I’m building, which is focused on funding clean energy startups. Sansa’s told me a little about your background and I think—” 

Mike holds up a hand, bringing Jon to a halt. “I’m gonna stop you right there, Jon. I appreciate you getting straight to the point, I really do, but I hardly know you. You’re not the first person to approach me with some grand idea to do some good in the world. Half of the people in this room have.” He waves his hand around absentmindedly. “You know what always happens though? As soon as things get a little difficult, people end up not following through. Or, you know, they’re really doing it to try to save on taxes or some other bullshit.” Mike shakes his head slightly, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “All I see is fear and corruption, time and time again. How do I know you’ll be any different? How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because Jon is practically a Stark,” Sansa chimes in, her eyes shining. “I know my dad’s record hasn’t been perfect by any means, but he’s always done his best to put his money where his mouth is, and I know you know that. While Jon may not be a Stark in name, he is one in every other sense of the word, and I think you’ll see that if you give him a chance.” 

Sansa has teed Jon up for the perfect one-two punch. He reminds himself to thank her for it later. “Look Mike, I want to make a difference. I know you do too. All I’m asking for is one proper conversation sometime. I’d be thrilled to get your input on my ideas. Sansa’s told me about your extensive experience in PE and I can only imagine how well that would translate over to VC, for good.” 

Mike is silent for what feels like forever. His eyes leap from Jon to Sansa and back again, before he nods slightly, more to himself than to them. “Okay, I’ll bite.” He pulls a card from his blazer pocket, handing it to Jon. It’s thick and cream-colored, blank except for a number printed on it. “Call this number to set up a time to meet me upstate. No promises. But if you talk and I like what I hear, I just might listen.” 

“Thank you, Mike,” Jon says, as he places the card carefully in the inner breast pocket of his jacket. He feels like he’s just come off a rollercoaster ride.

“Thank Sansa and thank the Starks,” Mike replies. “You got your foot through the door because of my respect for the Starks. I want that to be perfectly clear. Anything else, you’ll have to earn yourself.” 

…

The dinner, the actual officially-scheduled part of the evening, is a breeze. Food and booze are plentiful as Jon makes small talk with Derek’s former economics professor (“and future Nobel prize winner,” Derek adds with a wink) seated on his right and a Swarovski executive on his left. There’s a litany of self-congratulatory speeches at the front of the banquet hall to get through (AJ pretends to snore to try to get Jon to laugh before Derek shoots him a glare, and he sobers up immediately). Jon dutifully writes out a check for the charity and AJ wins a vintage Hermès scarf. 

After the auction wraps up, the gala’s attendees slowly begin to get up again, wandering to other tables to chat with people they know. Others fetch coffee, water, or another drink, congregating near the bar. 

Jon’s gaze wanders back to Sansa, seated on the opposite end of the table. His eyes meet hers, and with a start, he realizes she was already looking at him. His heart skips a beat at this revelation, something he pointedly chooses to ignore. She tilts her head slightly, arching an eyebrow, which Jon reads as, _there are more Mike Alperins I can introduce you to, if you want_. He shakes his head. He’s grateful that she stepped in with Dale Gagnon and appreciates the introduction to Mike Alperin. Anymore than that though is asking too much of her. 

Determination burns in Sansa’s eyes, and Jon prepares himself for a staredown, but, as it turns out, an argument proves to be wholly unnecessary. 

Word has evidently spread quickly. After dinner and a few glasses of wine, everyone’s curiosity wins out over their sense of self-importance—so they come seek out this newly-anointed Targaryen for themselves. A steady trickle of people begin finding their way to Jon’s table, usually under the guise of saying hello to Sansa. As a point of contact so many of them recognize, Sansa is their ticket to getting a chance to appraise Jon themselves. Sansa seems to relish being a broker in this way, moving into the Swarovski executive’s seat after he excuses himself to make his way around the room. 

Jon meets a wide assortment of different people, giving him a sense of the true breadth of personalities among New York City’s elite. Some of them serendipitously turn out to be exactly the type of connection he needs. Among these include Sansa’s sorority sister’s dad (“he’s just itching to spend that 300-year-old trust fund on liberal causes so you _have_ to take up his offer for lunch”), an older woman who also went to NYU for business school (“your alumni network is so important, Jon”), and one of her dad’s golfing buddies, a former managing director at Citi (“he loves Robb so Robb _definitely_ told him about you”). It’s a flurry of handshakes and smiles and Sansa intermediates it all—chin perched on the back of her hands, hands rested on the back of her chair, seemingly relaxed but endlessly alert. 

Jon thought she never paid much attention to him when they were younger. Either he was wrong or she has a picture perfect memory, because it seems like nothing ever escaped her—from his love of football to his hobby of fixing up old cars to that time he’d dabbled (very reluctantly, he might add) in theater in middle school. She finds ways to tie him to everyone they speak with, amplifying or playing down pieces of him in every conversation, to his benefit. Jon knows that this insincerity cheapens his message a bit. But it _works_. Other business cards join Mike Alperin’s in his pocket. Meetings are set up, and promises to introduce him to yet more people in the future are made. 

AJ and Derek flow in and out of these conversations, but Sansa stays, a constant ally by his side. He’s sure this doesn’t go unnoticed by everyone else, but thankfully, no one comments on it. 

It’s nice, being on the same team as someone again, of knowing someone has his best interests in mind and vice versa. Since Uncle Benjen’s death, Jon’s been more alone than he’d care to admit. Part of that was his own doing. He chose to become a park ranger in Alaska instead of running home to Maine, chose to not associate with his colleagues much, chose to retreat in on himself and dedicate himself to his cause. It was liberating. Liberating and lonely.

He dreads not having Sansa with him for the seemingly endless stream of galas and other engagements he has coming up, but he knows he’d also dread her presence the other way around, how he loses just a bit more control every time he looks at her. 

When the barrage of people finally ebbs and Jon finds himself alone with Sansa again, able to look around and take a breather at last, he realizes that quite some time must’ve passed, because the banquet hall has thinned out significantly. Sansa turns to look at him, her expression of relief surely mirroring his. They’re quiet for a moment, savoring the break.

Sansa doesn’t get to enjoy it for long, however, as one of her friends pulls her away to a conversation elsewhere. She hesitates, looking back at Jon, but he urges her to go, so she does. She joins Derek and a group of other Columbia students and recent grads, laughing together in a small circle. 

Jon does a more detailed scan of the room. Most people seem to have finally shifted out of networking mode, congregating in intimate circles to close out their evenings with their friends. No longer feeling any invisible eyes on him, Jon decides to get up and stretch his legs a bit. Exhaustion is finally setting in. He wanders around the banquet hall aimlessly, letting his feet carry him where they please. He smiles dryly to himself when he realizes he’s stopped near the desserts table, set up in a lonely corner. _Old habits die hard,_ he thinks, recalling past galas set a couple hundred miles north of here. 

He’d always be brooding in the corner, so clearly an outsider, in a collared shirt and khakis Robb lent him that didn’t quite fit him right. Every time, he’d swear that this would be the last of these stupid events he’d come to. He’d sulk until Arya came over to kick him in the shins, the dress her mother had stuffed her into already dirty. 

Meanwhile, Sansa would be thriving, pulled into a big group at the center of the room. She’d always dazzle at these kinds of events, the governor and future vice president’s perfect eldest daughter. People were naturally drawn to her, and she loved every second of it. It was almost dangerous, how she’d draw her sense of self-worth and confidence from galas and benefits. _In a way_ , Jon muses, _it was._

“How’d everything go?” AJ asks, pulling Jon from his thoughts. He comes to stand next to Jon, munching on a beignet.

“Honestly, better than I expected,” Jon replies, before he remembers the Dale Gagnon fiasco. “But not perfect either.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over anything, Jon,” AJ says, trading his now-empty plate for a glass of dessert wine from a passing waiter. “You’re new to this.” He gestures at the room in front of them. “I mean, I was too.” He wipes at the traces of powdered sugar still on his lips absentmindedly. “Seriously, I thought—dumbly I admit—that I was already a part of this world, given my upper-middle class background and proper private-school pedigree. I thought I knew how things worked around here.” He laughs. “Boy was I in for a rude awakening. Rich people like to think they’re socially liberal, don’t get me wrong. Even the old ones. But I think a black, bi guy who grew up yacht-less was still a little too much for them to handle.”

“You do check a lot of diversity boxes now that I think of it, bud,” Jon says, a small smile on his face.

“Pretty sure I gave the entire HR department of Morgan Stanley a hard-on when I was applying for the firm in college,” AJ laughs. “But the point is, most of these people have come to accept me as one of their own, now that they’ve gotten to know me. So just relax a little, dude, because I know it’ll happen for you too. Especially with Sansa around. She’s smart, and tough, and these jerks love her for it.”

“AJ, Sansa and I aren’t dating,” Jon says, deciding it's time to set the record straight.

AJ blinks in surprise. “My bad, dude. I shouldn’t have assumed.” 

They both turn to watch her for a moment. Sansa must feel their gazes, for she glances over at them, her eyes connecting with Jon’s. She keeps him in her line of sight, even as she continues on with her conversation. 

Jon supposes that this is the biggest thing that’s different now. Somehow, he’s found his way into her orbit.

“She’s very pretty,” AJ finally remarks, breaking the silence. Jon turns to look at his friend, who is deep in thought.

Jon’s murmur of assent dies in his throat. All he manages is a choked mumble.

AJ’s response to that is to give Jon a soft, suggestive smile. Jon doesn’t like what’s implied in his friend’s expression so he looks away, to find Sansa and Derek making their way towards them.

“What are you two smiling at each other about?” Sansa teases. “Does Derek here have competition?”

“Competition? Jon, literally, if you took AJ off my hands, I would thank you. Profusely.” Derek says, to which AJ pretends to pout. “But, you know, since I am stuck with him, I think it’s about time for me to take this dummy home.”

“Yeah, Derek has to work tomorrow and I do too, if you count catching up on all of my shows as work, that is,” AJ says. He winks at Jon. “And Jon, I trust I can copy off of you? You know, for our Financial Accounting problem set?” 

Derek and AJ begin speaking simultaneously—Derek admonishing AJ and AJ assuring Derek he was just joking. Jon and Sansa decide to leave them be, as their thank-yous for their invitations to the gala are waved off and the two guys meander in the general direction of the exit. It’s a chaotic goodbye, but Jon has come to expect nothing less from them. By the time they’ve reached the door, AJ has already wormed his way back into Derek’s good graces, his arm around his boyfriend. 

So it’s just Jon and Sansa left, standing together, alone, in a little corner of the room. 

“How are you getting home?” Jon asks Sansa, jumping to ask the first thing that comes to mind. 

“My roommate's actually coming to pick me up,” Sansa replies. She’s not quite focused on him, her eyes elsewhere. “The gym she goes to is a block or two from here so it’s on her way.”

“Your roommate has a car? In college? In the city?” Jon asks, impressed.

Sansa’s eyes snap back to Jon’s face as her attention refocuses on him. It feels like stepping out into the sun. “Not the way you have a car,” Sansa responds, with a laugh. “No driver. And she’s not in college. She’s getting her phD in physics at Columbia, so she’s not an undergrad like me.”

“Is that a thing, then?” Jon asks. “Columbia grad students having cars?”

Sansa thinks for a moment before answering. “No, grad students stick with the subway too,” Sansa replies. “Brienne’s just special.” 

Despite her light tone, there’s still a hint of fierce pride in Sansa’s voice, and Jon thinks that this Brienne character must really be something exceptional. 

“Ivan's on his way too, so I can come wait with you outside,” Jon says.

“Are you sure?” Sansa asks, brow furrowing. “You should stay up here longer if there are more people you want to talk to.” 

Jon shakes his head. “If there’s anything I’ve learned tonight, it’s that you _are_ the party, and I should go wherever the party goes.” 

“Right,” Sansa replies, rolling her eyes. “Well, in that case, the party is heading to the lobby now.”

…

Jon feels all the tension in his body flow out when they leave the hotel. Stepping back out onto the sidewalk is a return to regular society, to street noise and ordinary people. Men in suits walk and talk as they head home from their banking jobs, tourists gawk at their attire, taxis squeeze in and out. In this moment, the chaos that defines New York City is a relief to Jon. It’s a safety blanket.

“Thank you, by the way,” Jon says to Sansa. She stands next to him, her arms crossed. He imagines they must make quite a striking pair. Not as a couple, of course. That’s not where his mind jumped to first, _obviously_. Just the way they’re dressed in contrast to everyone else.

“For what?” Sansa asks. 

“For everything. I appreciate what you did tonight.”

“That was nothing, Jon,” Sansa insists, but she smiles all the same. “All those people approached me, remember? And I just gave them a nudge in the right direction, to you.”

“It was more than a nudge,” Jon says. 

“Anything for family, right?” Sansa replies, and he’d be lying if that doesn’t twist in his gut a little bit. _Family_ , _she’s like family._

A little girl stops in front of them, backpack on, looking them up and down in brash astonishment. “Excuse me? Are you a prince and a princess?” 

“I wish,” Jon says with a laugh. 

“Are you famous then?” The little girl asks, persistent.

“Not that we know of,” Sansa replies, amusement dancing on her lips.

“Hmmm,” she hesitates, brow furrowed in thought. Not to be deterred, she tries again. “Ariel and Eric?” 

Jon looks at Sansa, who shrugs, and laughs. He’s mock-serious, whispering, “Looks like you’ve discovered our secret. Shhh, don’t tell anyone.”

“I knew you were a prince and princess!” She’s delighted, hopping up and down. Sansa’s eyes sparkle as she looks at Jon, the corner of her mouth turned up in quiet mirth, and the way she looks in this moment is seared into his brain. It’s an image he won’t easily forget.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” A woman exclaims, rushing in to scoop up the little girl. Jon tears his eyes away from Sansa, landing on twin boys trailing shyly after their mother. “I hope she didn’t bother you too much. Come on, Kayla.”

“No worries at all,” Sansa says, giving the girl’s mother a reassuring smile. “She’s adorable.” 

“Thank you,” the woman answers, before picking her daughter up. “Kayla, I told you to stay put while I tied your brothers’ shoelaces,” she admonishes as she carries her daughter off, the boys following along.

“Mommy, mommy, guess who they are,” Kayla points at them even as she’s carried away, chatting excitedly. 

Jon and Sansa watch her go. “God, that was cute,” Sansa comments. Jon nods but doesn’t speak, his heart still in his throat. 

A grubby, grey Toyota Prius pulls up a minute later, driven by the fiercest woman Jon has ever seen. Her blonde hair is sheared short, and there’s a little cut above her right eye. That, along with the fact that her left hand is taped up, suggests to Jon that she must be an avid boxer. “Hey,” the woman rolls down her window to call out. Her eyes fall on Jon, and she gives him a wary look. On instinct, he takes a step away from Sansa. “Who’s this?”

“Hey Brienne,” Sansa smiles. “This is Jon Snow. Jon, meet Brienne Tarth.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jon steps up to the car window to shake Brienne’s hand. He can’t help but feel like he’s being sized up. 

“I’ll see you when I see you then, Jon,” Sansa says. “I’m sure it won’t be long.” 

Jon nods. “Text me if you need anything.” He means it, but doesn’t expect he’ll receive a text from her anytime soon. Pigs might’ve flown tonight but she’s still Sansa Stark and he’s still Jon Snow. He imagines the universe is due for a correction, bringing them back to equilibrium. 

… 

Ivan’s dropped him off and he’s at his door when his phone buzzes, proving him wrong. 

**Sansa Stark**

  * Are you busy tomorrow? I’ve been thinking and I have an idea. 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't really the place to comment on everything that's going on right now, but if you can, please support the BLM movement by donating: https://docs.google.com/document/u/2/d/1aUxocqIM4fYN4ZwPC0QuoOB55v64D9z0a58E4Sj2NEo/mobilebasic


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for your kudos and your kind comments! They mean a lot to me, they really do. You guys are great :) Also I’m unashamed to admit that this chapter was at least partially inspired by To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. I’m SUCH a SUCKER for fake dating rom coms (TATBILB, The Proposal, Just Go With It) honestly I should’ve known this fic was coming years ago.

The elevator dings, announcing Sansa’s arrival on the ground floor of her apartment building. The doors slide open, and her eyes immediately land on Jon in the lobby. He’s on a call, one arm crossed over his chest and the other holding his phone up to his ear. Sansa tries not to be too amused by the fact that he’s wearing a long-sleeve plaid shirt and black jeans, here in New York, when it’s still 80 degrees out. _You can take the boy out of Maine but you can’t take Maine out of the boy_ , Sansa muses. 

“Yeah… okay… sounds good. I’ll see you in a couple hours, Davos,” Jon says into his phone, before he hangs up, turning towards Sansa expectantly. 

“Davos as in Davos Seaworth?” Sansa asks. She doubts that there are other Davoses out there, given how uncommon the name is, but one can never truly know. 

“Yeah. He’s signed on as a general partner,” Jon says. “You know him?” 

“I know of him,” Sansa replies, as they walk towards the elevator. He’s part of the Silicon Valley crowd, which she’s less familiar with, but she’s heard of his success in founding a string of big-name startups himself. She thinks she vaguely remembers that he’s made the pivot into VC, and has done quite well for himself. It’s a strong personnel move on Jon’s part, even if many in the New York crowd look down on Davos’ humble beginnings. “Who else is on your team, Jon?”

“There aren’t that many of us right now,” Jon admits as the elevator doors open and they walk in. Sansa punches in the button for her floor. 

“Aren’t VC firms supposed to be lean?” Sansa asks. 

“Yeah, but I’d still like to have a few more people on board,” Jon replies. “Davos and I are the only general partners, Tormund is our number cruncher, and Sam does everything else.” 

“Sam Tarly?” Sansa inquires. “Robb told me you’re friends.”

“You know him too?” Jon asks, amused. 

“I’ve never met him personally, but I’ve talked to his dad a couple of times.” She doesn’t elaborate, but lets Jon extrapolate from her expression of disinclination. 

His eyes crinkle slightly in amusement. “Seems about right,” Jon replies, following her out of the elevator and towards her apartment.

Sansa unlocks the door, swinging it open. She steps aside, letting Jon in. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in the sight of the living room, and for good reason. The walls, covered floor-to-ceiling with paintings, blown-up photographs, framed posters, and other art and objects, are truly a sight to behold. 

“My parents bought this apartment after what happened with Ramsey Bolton.” Sansa explains, as Jon’s eyes sweep through the room. She assumes it was meant to serve as an apology, though her parents didn’t do anything wrong. Parental guilt is one hell of a drug. “My mom oversaw renovations, and she wanted this room decorated as a place I could come to feel safe in.” So Cat Stark had loaded up truck after truck of reminders for Sansa, bringing the things and people and places she loves to a little corner of New York. “There’s a little piece of everyone here.” He’s here too—in a small way, sure, but still represented. She wonders if he sees it, or if he even remembers. “Mix Brienne’s art in, and this is what you get.” 

It’s an ode to maximalism in the best way. A black-and-white photograph of Sansa holding Rickon as a baby for the first time hangs next to a painting of Joan of Arc (from Brienne’s collection), a New York Times newspaper clipping announcing Robb and Talisa’s marriage, and a hand-carved, wooden wolf mask. It’s totally incoherent, but it works.

“Cool,” Jon affirms. His eyes land on an embroidered portrait of Stark house, complete with stitched greenery representing the garden, fields, and forest, as well as the blue of the river flowing nearby. He smiles slightly. “Who’s this by?”

“Me,” Sansa replies. The stitchwork took her forever, but working on the portrait got her through her darkest hours in the capital. With Robert Baratheon dead and a cruel Cersei and sadistic Joffrey unleashed upon her, her father too busy suddenly having to run the country, Sansa had had no choice but to retreat into herself. The portrait serves as a reminder of her own ability to persist and evolve. Her skin is now ice and steel. They can’t hurt her anymore.

“I like it,” Jon says, still studying the portrait. Sansa blinks, returning to the present. 

“Thanks, Jon,” she says. 

He must hear a touch of something in her voice because he turns to look at her, eyebrows etched together in concern. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” she says and she really does mean it. The memory of being humiliated, afraid, and so, so alone—her mother, brothers, and sister miles away—doesn’t cause her to seize up the way she used to. 

She smiles, and changes the subject. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Coffee?” She’s already halfway to the kitchen, ever her mother’s daughter. “Oh, I’ve also got some leftover pierogies from Veselka in the fridge.”

“Water would be great,” Jon replies.

Sansa returns to the living room with a bottle of Fiji water. She’s barely handed him the bottle before she has to take it back, with a laugh at Jon’s expression of quiet indignance. “Right,” she says, going back into the kitchen to fill a glass with Brita water. “Our resident environmentalist. I’ll try to be more mindful in the future.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, accepting the glass. “And it’s fine, really.”

“No, no.” Sansa insists. “I should do better. I’m all for stopping climate change, but I don’t practice what I preach.”

“It’s not easy,” Jon soothes. “And there’s only so much you can do as one person.” He shakes his head slightly, letting out a dry laugh. “Don’t even get me started on big corporations and the structural changes this country needs. I could rant all day, but you already got a fair dose of that yesterday at the gala.” He gives her a wry smile. “So what’s this plan of yours you couldn’t tell me about over text?” 

“You might want to sit down for this,” Sansa says, planting herself in one of two oversized leather armchairs. Jon obliges, still looking at her expectantly. This is what she’s been dreading. She already knows it’s going to be an uphill battle. _Might as well just go ahead and say it_. She takes a deep breath, then declares, “I think we should pretend to date.”

“ _What_.” Jon’s face pales immediately. “I don’t—I don’t think I heard you right.”

Sansa launches into her pitch. “People don’t know you here, Jon. They know you’re a Targaryen, but that’s it. They don’t know what you believe in, if you have the right work ethic, who your friends are. It’ll take you a long time to get people to trust you if you work alone. But if you’re dating me, if you formally ally yourself with the Starks, that says a whole lot about you, more than you could possibly know. It’ll give them something to work with, a framework to evaluate you. Right now, they’ve got nothing.” 

Sansa looks at Jon, waiting for him to say something, anything at all, but he stays silent. She’s not even sure he’s breathing.

“Just think about it, Jon. We made a good team yesterday, but ‘family friends’ just doesn’t cut it. You have to know that. If we’re dating though, you’ll be making a huge statement. These people are so suspicious of outsiders. If you’re dating one of them, they’ll be more open to hearing you out. We don’t have to be together for that long. Just a couple months, max.”

Jon’s eyes move back and forth across her face, as if he’s waiting for her to say, _gotcha!_ , as if she’s pulling some kind of a prank on him. She stares back at him defiantly, annoyed that he’s not even considering the idea. 

He finally seems to realize she’s not joking after all. “No way in hell.” He enunciates every word. “Absolutely not.” 

“Come on, Jon,” Sansa presses. “Don’t tell me you don’t see the rationale behind this.”

“No, I really don’t.” Jon snaps. “I mean, there are a million things—but most importantly, what’ll your parents think? Robb? Arya?”

“They don’t have to know.” Sansa insists. “Now that my dad’s stepped back from public service, him and my mom are way out of the loop. Robb’s in Singapore, and Arya’s in London. Who’d tell them? Bran is… well, Bran, and Rickon’s too young to hear about this kind of stuff.”

“So you want me to lie. To your family.” Jon grinds out. 

“It’s not lying if it never comes up,” Sansa argues. “Okay, yeah, they know we’re in the same city. But the very concept of us hanging out, well, that goes against time, space, and all precedent, doesn’t it? They have absolutely no reason to suspect anything.”

“What about our age difference?” Jon presses on. “Isn’t that just a little weird to you?”

Sansa laughs. “Half the girls in my sorority are dating 28-year-olds. Comparatively speaking, our 4-year age difference is wholly appropriate.” 

Jon opens his mouth, but he seems to have temporarily run out of counterarguments. He slumps back into the couch. “I’m sorry, Sansa, but there’s no way.”

She knows it’s time to try a different tactic.

“Please, Jon.” She softens her voice, placing her hand on his. “Let me help you.”

For a second, she thinks she’s got him. The defiance set in his features subsides as his eyes glance down at her hand on his. But then his expression hardens. His gaze meets hers, absolutely resolute. _Damn it_. 

“I’m not dragging you into this.” Jon says, moving his hand away. “It’s too much to ask.” 

_Stark honor_ , Sansa realizes. _Of course_. She’s been able to win so many arguments against Robb and her father because of the very same principles. She knows exactly what she should say next. “Jon, I need this just as much as you do.”

His brows furrow. “What? Why?” 

“You might find what I’m about to say ridiculous, but it’s important to me, okay? So just listen for a second.” She soldiers on. “I want to be the next Kappa Delta Pi president, and I know that there’s like an 80% chance I’m going to be.” She pauses, giving him a chance to react, but he doesn’t. He just nods for her to go on. “That's common knowledge now in Greek life, and so the fact that I’m single right now is a _major_ inconvenience because every frat is trying to get me to date one of their brothers in a push for prestige and status in the Greek life hierarchy. That’s not a system I want to be a part of, but abstaining from it would just piss _everyone_ off. If we date, I’d get to be totally neutral. It’s a win-win situation for both of us.”

Sansa pauses to breathe. She half expects Jon to dismiss her reasoning and brand the whole ordeal silly, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Okay. So you don’t want to date someone in Greek life for the sake of politics. I respect that. But if we fake-date, isn’t it the same thing?”

“Well, yes,” Sansa admits. _But you’re you_ , she thinks. “But frat guys will still expect a real relationship, and everything that comes with it.” She doesn’t elaborate, but she knows he knows what she means. 

He clenches his jaw, eyes fixed on a point above Sansa’s shoulder. There’s a pause, as Jon mulls things over.

“Okay.” 

Sansa does a double take. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

She’d expected him to put up much more of a fight. She’d outlined everything he could potentially take issue with last night on several notecards, and had come up with a rebuttal for each one. She'd over-prepared, as usual.

“You’ll do it? You’ll pretend to date me?” Sansa double-checks. She honestly can’t believe it.

“I’ll do it.” Jon replies, his mouth set in a tight grimace. She’s not sure if she wants to laugh at his reticence or feel hurt by it. She chooses neither. They have work to do after all.

“Great.” Sansa clasps her hands together. “In that case, I think it would be useful for us to set some ground rules.” 

…

She comes back from her bedroom brandishing some carbonless copy paper—complete with the signature pink and yellow sheets underneath.

“Did you just have that lying around?” Jon asks, his lips quirking into a ghost of a laugh in that particular way of his. 

“It’s a necessary evil when you’re Kappa Delta Pi’s Vice President of Philanthropy.” Sansa replies. She sits cross-legged on the floor, placing the paper on the coffee table and uncapping her pen. “Okay, rule number one. I don’t think we should tell more people than we can count on one hand.” 

“Fair,” Jon agrees. 

“Why?” Sansa asks, genuinely interested in parsing out his thought process.

“It doesn’t matter how much we trust the people we tell; if too many people know, the truth is bound to spread.”

“Agreed,” Sansa replies, mildly surprised. She’d thought exactly the same thing, which was why she brought it up in the first place. “So let’s decide now on people who should know. Brienne already does; I was bouncing ideas off her last night.”

Jon nods. “She’s your roommate, so it makes sense.” He falls silent for a moment, thinking, then says, “Tormund.” 

“Tormund… your numbers guy?” Sansa asks, confused. “Why him?”

“He’d be completely unbearable otherwise.” Jon says. He seems to sense the uncertainty in Sansa’s silence, and quickly rushes to assure her. “Tormund can keep a secret. He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I trust you.” Sansa responds. She hesitates, unsure of how exactly to broach what she wants to say next. “Jon, you know, if he’s being sexist, if that’s what you mean by him being unbearable, you should call him out on his behavior. We shouldn’t let that shit slide anymore.”

Jon raises his eyebrows slightly in surprise. “He’s not,” he insists, with a small laugh. “He just mostly enjoys making jokes at my expense.”

“Still,” Sansa says.

Jon’s face grows more serious. “Yeah, okay, I will.”

There’s a pause between them. Sansa frowns, her mind racing through the possibilities.

“My therapist, Ruth,” Sansa offers, since they’ve already gotten this far. _Might as well lay it all out on the table_. “She should also know.” 

Jon nods, unfazed. “Done.” 

Sansa taps the butt of her pen lightly on the table, deliberating. “There’s no one else I can think of off the top of my head,” Sansa says. There are actually a million people she can think of, starting with her own family, but none of them necessarily need to know. 

“Me neither,” Jon replies. “The last two we can decide on as we go.” 

“But no matter what, absolutely no more than five.” Sansa emphasizes, underlining this last part on the paper twice. 

She jots down the names they’ve come up with so far for good measure. _Brienne_. _Tormund_. _Ruth_. It’s an odd combination, that’s for sure. But so be it.

“We should also have a rule where we have to go on a date, a real date, at least once a week,” Jon offers. 

Sansa blinks at him. “We don’t have to oversell this ‘relationship,’ Jon. I know some real couples who don’t even do that much.” 

Jon doesn’t budge, mouth set in a firm line. “If we’re gonna do this, we should do it right.” 

Sansa shakes her head slightly, but she knows his mind is already made up. She puts it on the list. “Where do you live, Jon?” 

“Nolita. Why?”

“Hmm,” Sansa ponders the situation. To Nolita, Jon’s just an ordinary guy, one New Yorker among millions. “My apartment then.”

“Your apartment?” Jon asks, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“You’ll have to come over at least once a week,” Sansa says. “And you should have Ivan drop you off at the corner. Or you could take the subway up.” 

“What am I coming to your apartment for?” Jon queries, still bewildered. 

“For visibility,” Sansa replies. “If you’re always here, people’ll assume things are going smoothly between us.”

His eyes widen slightly, and Sansa takes that to mean he’s finally catching onto what she’s implying. He clears his throat slightly. 

“Okay.” He lets out a breath. “I’ll be here.” 

“Bring homework,” Sansa tells him. She’s busy, he’s busy. They’ll have to multitask. “Anything else you want on the list?” 

She looks over at Jon. He pointedly avoids eye contact, staring at a point behind her on the wall.

“No kissing.” He says firmly. 

Sansa rolls her eyes. She doesn’t know how they’d sell this “relationship” without it. “I’m not made of glass, Jon. I won’t break. You don’t have to protect me.” 

“No kissing.” Jon repeats, steadfast.

Sansa can tell that this is non-negotiable for him. “Fine,” she says, writing it down. “No kissing.” 

She’s not hurt, per se. This is exactly what she’d imagined last night as she’d planned things out. She thought Jon would be the perfect co-conspirator because she knew she could trust him to carry this out properly, without some hidden agenda. She’s Robb and Arya’s sister to him. And that’s all she’ll ever be to him. And she’s okay with that. Prefers it that way.

She just has to ignore that tiny piece of her that still wants what she wanted when she was twelve—a prince, a fairytale romance, the kind of love that _burns_ —that tiny piece of her whose heart is breaking knowing she’s entering a partnership, a contract, a _pact_ , with someone who will never be that person for her. _When did you sink so low? Why would you bar yourself from experiencing one of the best parts of life?_ They’re not questions she wants to answer. 

Sansa and Jon flesh out a couple more things—social media, pet names, and a rock-solid backstory. When they’re done, they both sign at the bottom of the sheet. Sansa rips the papers apart and gives Jon a copy. He tucks it into his back pocket. 

“I’ll see you… Tuesday night then?” Sansa questions, standing up.

“Wait, whoa, hold on a second,” Jon raises a hand. She gets the nagging sense that he finds something funny, but she can’t be sure. She’s never been the best at reading him, even when they were young, though she knows he’s always been an open book. “Are you kicking me out now?” 

“Oh. No,” Sansa replies, brows furrowing slightly. “I just assumed you needed to head out to wherever you need to be next.”

“Are you free right now?” Jon asks, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“I am,” Sansa answers hesitatingly, not exactly following his train of thought. 

“Great. Let me take you on our first real date then.”

…

They decide on Tom’s for lunch. The diner, made infamous by _Seinfeld_ , makes up for its lack of romantic appeal with its visibility. Located a couple blocks from campus, Tom’s is heavily frequented by Columbia students, and Sansa argues as much to Jon. They’re bound to be sighted by multiple people there, the perfect way to get the news out about them without doing it themselves.

The walk over is uneventful. It’s still Saturday morning, so there are less people out and about on campus. Many students are still sleeping off hangovers in their rooms. The ones they do pass mostly either don’t know who they are or don’t care, eyes sliding right past her and Jon. There are a few though whose gazes linger, eyes widening and quickly lowering their heads to send out texts to their friends. Sansa knows it’s not enough. They need to reach critical mass. She's pinning her hopes on Tom's.

The hostess seats them at a booth by the bar. The diner is fairly quiet, but Sansa spots at least three parties that could be potential Columbia students scattered around the restaurant, eyeing her and Jon. _That's promising_ , she thinks. After their waitress takes their orders, Jon crosses his arms on the table and looks at Sansa expectantly. “So. What have I missed in the past seven years?” 

There’s almost too much to cover, but she does her best to tell him everything. She talks through her time in Washington DC, boarding school in New Hampshire, and Columbia, not mincing her words in regards to Joffrey, Petyr Baelish, and Ramsay, the worst of a fairly nasty bunch. Her therapist always tells her that the path to healing isn’t linear, and Sansa knows she’s right. Even if other things take longer, Sansa can now speak candidly about the past. And Jon should know the full details, not just the vague truths she’s sure Robb’s huffed to him over the years during their calls. If they’re really to do this, Jon should know the good, the bad, and the ugly.

 _And boy were things ugly_ , she thinks. The retelling affords her the opportunity to reflect on the past. She'd always walked a tightrope, lost in the clouds, her parents there to steady her and keep her from what waited below. The problem was that when she slipped off, she fell far, and the dreadful and the abominable seized the chance to pull her down, down, down. 

Jon is quiet as she talks. He’s completely still, not even seeming to breathe. The occasional twitch of his jaw muscle is the only indication that he’s even alive. 

When she’s finished, she fully expects him to fly off the handle, as Robb and her father did, over and over. Instead, he’s silent for a long time, composing himself. 

After an eternity, he clears his throat. His words come out in a low rumble. “Thank you for telling me that. I can’t imagine that was easy to do.” 

His eyes find hers, and he shifts a little closer. Though his tone is mostly calm and even, Sansa can hear a passion that bleeds into fury underlying his words as he says, “Listen. Whatever you need, whatever I can do, just let me know, alright? I—” He leans back, evidently trying to find the right words. “Your fight is my fight.” 

Sansa nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. _He’s not a Stark but he might just be the best of us_ , she thinks, even as she bemoans his cheesiness while simultaneously fervently hoping he never changes. And though it’s completely ridiculous, she suddenly gets the urge to protect him, preserve his sense of honor and integrity and justice. God knows how New York will try to tear that away from him. 

Their food arrives, and Sansa’s glad for the interruption. She changes the subject, telling Jon about her major (poli sci), the classes she’s taking this quarter (“it’s only been a week but stats is confirmed the worst thing ever”), and her law school plans while working her way through her BLT. Things are going exactly as they should. 

That is, until Sansa glances out the window, spotting—

“Oh god,” she whispers under her breath. 

Jon’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Fuck, she’s coming in.”

“Who?”

Sansa briefly considers making a break for it. But there’s only one exit and she wouldn’t be able to hide in the bathroom forever.

“Remember when I said there was an 80% chance I’d be the next Kappa president?” Sansa queries, to which Jon nods in response. “The other 20% is walking in right now, and oh, great, she sees me.” Sansa gives the girl a half-hearted wave. She turns back to Jon, explaining quickly, knowing she doesn’t have much time. “Look, it’s not like I _want_ to not get along with Aviva. I mean, could catty sorority girls _be_ any more of a misogynistic cliche? But she just _keeps_ escalating—” Sansa abruptly stops talking as Aviva makes a beeline towards their table.

“Sansa, hey!” Aviva says, eyes glinting as she arrives at their booth.

“Hey Aviva,” Sansa replies, trying not to let exhaustion seep too far into her voice. Navigating slippery conversations has always been one of Sansa’s specialties, but this has never been a chess game she’s wanted to play. Not with Aviva. A well-dressed boy is two steps behind her, reluctantly standing a few paces away from their booth, and Sansa’s heart sinks. She greets him. “Hey Max.”

“Hey Sansa,” Max says, hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets as he glances between Sansa, Aviva, and Jon. 

“Right! You and Max went to boarding school together. How could I have forgotten?” Aviva exclaims, in a voice that indicates she’s all but forgotten. “Look at us, Sansa. You went to Exeter for a year and I’m dating a guy who went to Exeter for four years. Just about evens out, doesn’t it?” She laughs.

“Aviva, we should head to our table,” Max urges. He glances over at the hostess, who hovers awkwardly a couple feet away. 

“No, no, it’s alright. We’re catching up,” Aviva says, patting Max on the shoulder absentmindedly as she looks Sansa up and down. “Is that a Veronica Beard dress you’re wearing?” Sansa nods, wishing she could roll her eyes. She knows exactly what Aviva plans to say next, and it’s just all so _pointless_. “I mean, it’s lovely, don’t get me wrong, but what happened to all the _colors_ you used to wear?” 

“I quite like how Sansa dresses now, actually,” Jon cuts in mildly. Sansa shoots him a glare. _This isn’t his fight_.

Aviva seems to notice Jon for the first time. She turns to look at him, raising a single perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, I’m being completely rude.” She holds out her hand to Jon. “Aviva Pike.”

“I’m Jon.” Sansa’s thankful he shows no reluctance in taking her hand. His face and posture are both perfectly polite. “Sansa’s boyfriend.” 

Aviva and Max’s jaws drop simultaneously. Sansa almost wants to laugh. She knows that if the news about her and Jon isn’t out by now, it certainly will be very, very soon. 

“Sansa, good for you!” Aviva exclaims. Then her eyes narrow and widen again. “Oh, everything makes sense now. Is Jon here why you weren’t at the EpTau mixer on Thursday?” _Oh god_. Sansa knows exactly where this is going. Aviva turns to Jon. “Sansa hasn’t missed a single EpTau mixer before, I swear! Always carrying a torch for Harry Hardyng, even though he’s never single. She must really like you, Jon.” 

Sansa’s got to hand it to her. That was quite a move. She has to bite down about a hundred different retorts as she focuses on finding the quickest way out. _Defuse, defuse, defuse_ , she thinks, and so she glances at Max, who gets the hint.

He clears his throat. “Alright. That’s enough, I think, for one day.” He gives Sansa an apologetic smile. “See you around, Sansa. And it was nice to meet you, Jon. ” 

Sansa watches them go. Jon watches her watch them go. When Max and Aviva are seated a safe distance away, Jon pipes up. “So. Who’s Harry Hardyng?”

Sansa laughs, shaking her head slightly. “Doesn’t matter.” 

“It certainly sounds like he matters,” Jon says, and Sansa looks up at him, to see the corner of his mouth quirking upwards slightly. 

“Mind your own business,” Sansa replies, making a big show of rolling her eyes.

“Harry Hardyng,” Jon says, weighing the name in his mouth. He just barely manages to duck out of the way of a paper napkin Sansa lobs at him in response.

“Eat your damn food.” 

…

After Jon and Sansa finish fighting over whether he’s paying or they’re splitting the check (Jon wins, but agrees to split the bill with her in the future), they head outside to wait for Ivan to come pick him up. 

Sansa takes in her surroundings and spots Aviva out of the corner of her eye. “She’s watching us through the window,” Sansa tells Jon. He’s looking at his phone, scratching his beard absentmindedly. 

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he says, handing his phone to her. “She certainly seems to have taken an interest in our, uh,” he can't seem to quite get the word “relationship” out of his mouth. “Anyway, looks like she's spread that interest around for good measure.” On Jon’s screen is a text from AJ.

**AJ Ajayi**

  * Jon and Sansa sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G?



Sansa knew the news would get out fast in Aviva’s hands, but she didn’t know it would be this fast. AJ isn’t a student at Columbia. He isn't even an alum, so this means it’s reached the broader New York community.

She pulls out her own phone, and sees that she has texts from half a dozen people. The first is from Imani, which she opens.

**Imani Renaud**

  * SO WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME ABOUT THIS BOYFRIEND OF YOURS??? 



_The news is out, completely out_. In a sense, she’s almost relieved. There’s no backing out now.

“Mr. Snow.” Ivan has arrived in Jon’s distinctive Tesla. The passenger-side window is down, and Ivan peers through it expectantly, car idling. 

“One second, Ivan,” Jon calls out. He turns to Sansa. “I should go. I’ll see you Tuesday night.” 

Sansa nods. She’s distinctly aware of the fact that Aviva’s gaze still hasn’t left them, that she’s analyzing their every move. 

“Jon,” Sansa says suddenly. “Aviva’s still watching us.”

His brows furrow. “And?”

“And I know it’s against our rules, but I think you should kiss me.” When he begins to protest, she adds, “So the story is that we’ve hung out a few times, but this is our first official date as a couple. How bad would it look if we didn’t?”

“We could hug,” Jon suggests. “We could make it a long one. Really draw it out.” 

“It doesn’t matter how long the hug is,” Sansa insists. “This date’ll look like a dud if we don’t kiss goodbye.” 

Jon sighs. “Fine. I’m not going to kiss you. In fact, let’s just stop saying the word ‘kiss’ so much alright?” He shivers slightly, as if to shake it off. “But I think we can do the next best thing.” He glances around them. There’s no one in their immediate vicinity. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Sansa replies, a little offended that he would even ask.

“Okay.” He breathes in, steeling himself. Then he pulls her to him, turning them slightly so that she’s facing away from Aviva. It all happens very fast. He leans in, snaking an arm around her lower back, hand around her waist. Jon is suddenly very, very close. She’s completely enveloped in him, smells mint, fresh laundry, chopped firewood. “Is this alright with you?” Jon whispers, face millimeters away from hers, warm breath on her skin. She nods, her heart in her throat, as she lets her arms slip into place around his back. _It’s just the proximity_ , she thinks. _It’s just because he’s so close_. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” Jon says. He cups her face gently with the hand that’s not around her waist. Her face burns at his touch, and she’s almost certain she’s completely red, but Jon doesn’t comment, thankfully. Nobody’s ever been this close before, not with eyes as tender as Jon’s are, completely focused on her and flooded with concern. _This isn’t real_ , she reminds herself. _This is all for show_. But her body tingles everywhere he’s touching her, and logic, planning, and appearances all slip her mind and the only thing she knows is him. Jon pitches forward, their noses brushing, and for a moment, their lips are a hair’s breadth apart. 

And then Jon is disentangling himself from her, looking down and away. She’s rooted to the spot. Sansa can guess that from Aviva’s angle, what just transpired between her and Jon for all intents and purposes looked like a perfectly normal, chaste kiss. For Sansa though, _well_ , her reaction is certainly not something she wants to unpack.

Jon takes one step back, then another, until there’s a respectable, appropriate distance between them again. She becomes aware of their surroundings once more, a car honking in the distance, a man taking his trash out down the street, a group of grad students walking into Tom’s. Her cheeks cool, and she’s about to subconsciously reach up to feel them before she stops herself, clasping her hands together. _You’re just confused_ , she tells herself. _Jon is a friend, and you’re grateful to have him. You just got mixed up in your innate response to it all_. It’s a reasonable explanation, one that she accepts wholeheartedly. She really has no other choice. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Jon says, turning towards his car, not quite meeting her eye.

“Bring homework,” Sansa calls after him. He turns to look at her, and she catches his smile one last time before he climbs in. 

Sansa pulls out her phone as she turns to walk back to her apartment, scrolling through her notifications. She opens Imani’s text again, and then begins to type. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all again for your kudos and your comments! I really, really appreciate the love; it keeps me going. I did want to let you all know that I’ll be on the busier side for the next four weeks, so I probably won’t be able to get a chapter out until after then. Thanks in advance for your patience and see you all soon!

**CW: Drug use, misogynistic language**

Jon’s rented out some office space in Midtown for his fledgling team to meet and work in. It’s not much, just a small room with desks pushed up against the windows, but it’s functional. And to Jon, that’s all they need. 

It’s just him and Tormund in the office on Monday afternoons. Jon spends his time pouring over an Excel spreadsheet with the names of all the potential investors he’s met so far and Tormund mainly just lounges in his swivel chair, feet propped up on his desk, chewing on a pencil or throwing a rubber ball against the wall. “Trust my process,” he says whenever Jon pauses to frown at him.

This particular Monday, Jon chooses to divulge the truth about his “relationship” with Sansa to Tormund, knowing it’s the only time the two of them will be alone before the news gets around to the rest of his team, and it becomes the only thing they talk about for the foreseeable future. 

When he’s finished, he looks at Tormund expectantly, waiting for the facetious comment he knows is coming. “What do you—”

Jon doesn't get the chance to finish that thought, interrupted by a burst of Tormund’s raucous laughter. Tormund’s face pinkens underneath his beard; tears well in his eyes.

“Holy shit,” Tormund wheezes, wiping his eyes. “That’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and that’s really saying something coming from me, of all people.”

“It’s not dumb,” Jon grumbles, annoyed. “It’s a win-win situation for both of us.”

“Oh, is that what she told you?” Tormund asks, unbridled mirth in his expression. “Because I really don’t see how you’re ‘winning’ anything with sex off the table.” 

“Don’t even go there, dude,” Jon chides, remembering his conversation with Sansa about Tormund’s gibes. “And I don’t want to hook up with her, jeez. We grew up together.” 

It’s mostly the truth, but Jon still can’t quite bring himself to meet Tormund’s eyes. 

“Bullshit,” Tormund declares. 

_Damn it_ , Jon thinks. 

“She’s bossy and a ginger. It’s fate.” Tormund reclines in his seat, looking at Jon thoughtfully. “You better sort your shit out, Snow. Things could get real ugly real fast if, one of these days, you forget that you’re pretending.”

Jon doesn’t deign to reply, shaking his head as he turns away from Tormund and back to his monitor. But he knows that Tormund has a point. For this to work, he’ll have to put as much physical distance as possible between himself and Sansa. He can’t afford another Tom’s Restaurant situation. When he pretended to kiss her, it took all the self-control he had to keep a gap between them, to keep his mind booted up and in the driver’s seat when everything else was completely overtaken by the need to just give in, to just take things to their natural conclusion. Any lapse in will and that sliver of air—singular molecules really—would’ve disappeared, and then, _well_ , he doesn’t even want to think about _that_ scenario. 

…

When Jon meets Sansa outside of her building a day later, a guy hoots at them teasingly from across the street. 

“Shut up, Liam,” Sansa calls back, rolling her eyes. She hooks her arm through Jon’s and leads him inside. He tries not to let the way her arm feels wrapped around his get to his head.

“Frat boy?” Jon asks, when they’re safely out of sight.

“Yeah,” Sansa confirms. She frowns slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. “He’s quite the gossiper, you know, so it’s actually good press, if you think about it.” 

She smiles slightly, shaking her head. “We got lucky. I doubt it’ll always be like this, but if we stick to a regular schedule, we’ll definitely be able to cover our bases.” 

She’s so nonchalant about it. He wishes he was the same way. But for him, a regular schedule means routine exposure to Sansa, which means more time he’ll have to spend harrowed and on his toes, nursing a burgeoning secret she can never find out. He supposes it’s just something he’s going to have to learn to live with. 

Jon follows Sansa up to her apartment, and into her dining room. Brienne is already situated at the kitchen counter, far enough away to give them their space but close enough to keep an eye on them. Jon really doesn’t mind; he’s nothing if not grateful to have a third wheel. Sansa hunkers down to work on her statistics problem set and Jon tries to do the same with his Financial Accounting reading. His task is made more difficult by the multitude of distractions he has to face, like Sansa’s perfume and the way her brows furrow when she’s confused. However, he’s determined to make this work, so he stares at his textbook until his eyes find the words “accounts receivable” and “balance sheet” again, and he struggles on. All in all, it’s really not _that_ bad.

...

He takes her to Carbone for their second “date.” They reminisce about their shared childhood together as Sansa takes sips of his wine when their waitress isn’t looking. They laugh about the shenanigans the dogs would pull when they were puppies, how Robb never quite managed to learn how to tell when water was boiling, and the fallout when Arya picked up her first cuss words at school. 

It’s nice, if he ignores the fact that he has to sit ramrod straight to keep himself from accidentally brushing her knee or having their legs touch in the tight terrain under the table. Everything’s totally fine. He can manage this.

The arrival of their meals is a whole ordeal. Sansa is meticulous about angles and lighting when taking photos, and Jon has no choice but to wait patiently for her to get the perfect Instagram story. “Date night,” she mouths unconsciously as she types up her caption, before she declares that the app will be _their_ milieu. She explains that it’s the only social media platform none of the other Starks are on—Arya’s too contrarian, Bran’s Bran, and Robb’s too old for Instagram. When Jon points out that he’s older than Robb, Sansa smiles slyly and points out that he’s not on Instagram either. 

And his will falters for a moment, as he takes in her grin, her _lips_ , the glimmer of mirth in her eyes. He tells himself that these are the hardest moments. If he can just get through these moments, he’ll be fine. He tears his eyes away from her and changes the subject.

…

They run into their first real snag at Cecilia Halpern’s birthday party. She’s the daughter of one of Rhaegar Targaryen’s favored lawyers, a Vogue editor, and the first person to make Jon really feel welcome in New York. To celebrate her 25th, she’s rented out Aretsky’s Patroon’s rooftop bar, and invited everyone she knows to get drunk in her honor. 

When Jon and Sansa arrive, there’s a team at the door waiting to take their gifts for Cecilia and usher them to where they need to be. 

“Remember,” Sansa says, turning to look at him even as they climb up the narrow staircase to the roof. “Connor Carlisle. Katie Williams. Ali Kamal.” 

“I got it. Don’t worry,” Jon soothes, amused. She spent the entire ride over talking through who she expected to be at the party, giving him detailed information about their backgrounds, interests, and relationships with one another. 

She reminded him repeatedly that though the attendees would mostly be their age, they could still prove incredibly valuable to him. _These people are the eyes and ears of their bosses, parents, whomever,_ she’d said, so earnestly. _And if they see a good investment opportunity, they’ll pounce on it just as fast as the next middle-aged managing director._

“Sansa, Jon, you made it!” Cecilia calls out to them as they step onto the roof.

Cecilia pulls Sansa into a hug first, giving Jon the time to take in the space. It’s absolutely phenomenal. Warm wood and brick paneling set the tone first. The ceiling extends out far enough to cover the fully-stocked bar built against the wall on the right. Beyond that, twinkling fairy lights are strung out under the darkening sky. It’s chic and friendly at the same time, their surroundings reflecting the personality of their host. 

“Happy birthday, Cecilia,” Jon says, giving her a quick hug. “Awesome spot.” 

“Thank you, Jon,” Cecilia replies. “Glad you like it. It was actually on the NYC bucket list I sent you when you first got here.” 

Jon winces. “Yeah, I haven’t gotten a chance to get through that yet.” 

Cecilia laughs. “No worries, you’ve got plenty of time. And someone to take you to all those places now.” She gives him and Sansa an exaggerated wink. 

“I can’t help but just _love_ this pairing, I mean—” Thankfully for Jon, Cecilia doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence, as she’s picked up from behind and spun around. “David, oh my god!” She exclaims, hitting the culprit playfully on the arm after he sets her down. It’s perfect timing, and a welcome distraction from what would have surely been an excruciating conversation.

Jon notices that David’s hand is still on Cecilia’s arm as they start to chat, even as another man comes to stand next to them, looking drained. He recognizes something in this, and so he turns to Sansa. Her eyes confirm what he already knows, but he asks anyway, mouthing the words, _Connor and David?_ She nods. 

_Connor and David are best friends_ , Sansa’d explained to him in the car. _Everyone thinks Connor is in love with David, but David’s been trying to get with Cecilia for a long time now. Connor’s a good guy. David’s kind of a dick. But you’ll have to put up with that, because he’s your ticket to Connor._

“Hey Connor,” Sansa steps into the gap between him and Jon, deftly blocking his view of David and Cecilia. “Good to see you. Have you met my boyfriend, Jon Snow?”

“I have not,” Connor replies, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Jon.” 

Connor’s so automatic about it, without even a hint of surprise or curiosity on his face or in his tone. Jon has no choice but to assume that New York has absorbed the shock of a secret Targaryen. And a new relationship too. _That was fast_.

“You too,” Jon says, taking Connor’s hand. Jon studies the other man as they shake hands, comparing what he’s heard about Connor with the actual living human being in front of him. Jon supposes that he does have the face of the great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of the world’s most famous shipping tycoon, even if it’s not immediately obvious. There’s definitely something regal about his features, though it’s hidden behind an exhaustion set in Connor’s eyes, the lines on his face, and his frame. He looks stretched thin, like he has too much to bear, too much on his mind. 

“What do you do for work, Jon?” Connor asks, the epitome of politeness. Jon’s begun to pick up on this dance that the New York elite do. They know a lot more than they let on, but they would rather go to extraordinary lengths to tease that information out than admit they’ve done their research. Jon’s more than willing to oblige. It’s only fair. With Sansa at his ear, he knows far more than he should too. 

“I’m in the process of setting up a clean energy VC fund,” Jon replies. "I saw everything happening with the ESG movement in wealth management and got inspired." He’s sprinkled in the exact buzzwords Sansa told him to. He catches her approval out of the corner of his eye.

“Really,” Connor says, and Jon doesn’t miss the way his back straightens a little. Jon doesn’t know what’s weighing Connor down, but it’s certainly not business. Chasing deals is evidently his calling. “Well, that’s a funny coincidence, isn’t it?” Jon has to hold back a dry laugh at that. None of this is a coincidence. “Us Carlisles have a family office set up to manage our money, and we’re always looking for new opportunities to invest in. I’ve been trying to push us more into venture lately.” 

Jon is grateful that Connor’s meeting him halfway, instead of forcing him to cajole and kowtow like so many other New Yorkers have. They exchange business cards and agree to a sit-down meeting in the future, talking shop until David swaggers back into their circle, bringing Cecilia with him. Jon doesn’t miss how Connor visibly deflates a little at the sight. 

“God, you guys are so boring. Can we please talk about something other than work?” David asks. 

Connor obliges. “So, Jon, how long have you been in New York?” 

… 

Things go well. Despite already having Connor’s business card safely tucked away in his pocket, Jon seizes the opportunity to seal the deal on a personal level. He bonds with Connor over cars and craft beer, and David makes surprisingly civil and productive contributions to their conversation, with Cecilia nearby to cow him. After they’ve finished going over the merits of the Pagani Huayra, Jon looks up to realize Sansa has drifted away. He scans the crowd until he spots her. She’s lounging at a table with another girl, deep in conversation. He excuses himself and makes his way to her. 

“Hey,” he says, pulling up a chair to the table. 

Sansa’s friend narrows her eyes, seemingly putting two and two together.

“Well hello, Sansa’s boyfriend,” she purrs, a wide grin on her face. “I’ve been dying to meet you.” 

Jon risks a glance over at Sansa. There’s a slight panic in her eyes, just barely visible. He really can’t blame her. Selling a lie to someone you’re close with is much harder than fibbing to acquaintances. He raises his brows slightly at her, in a way that says, _tell her if you need to_. 

Sansa shakes her head slightly. 

_The hard way it is, then_. He’s almost come to expect this of her. She takes his hand, lacing her fingers between his. For a second, he forgets to breathe. Her hand is warm and soft as she gives his a squeeze. _For confidence_ , he thinks. “Imani, this is Jon. Jon, this is Imani, a sister and one of my best friends at Columbia.” 

_Sister_ , Jon thinks, _of course._ Imani is, in some sense, a carbon copy of Sansa. They’re both beautiful in the same way—tall, skinny, put-together, sharp, scary to most, he’s sure. They both speak at the same quick pace, with authority and a deep confidence. He suspects this is a sorority-wide thing.

“Oh, Jon, this is Damien,” Imani pulls her own boyfriend towards them, who’d been lingering a few steps back, nursing his whiskey and staring purposefully away at a spot in the distance. 

“Nice to meet you, Damien,” Jon says, shaking the other man’s hand. He’s tall and lean, with closely cropped hair and dressed in a suit that seems like a second skin on him. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever get to that point.

“I’m sorry D’s acting so strange right now,” Imani says, the teasing insult tempered by the adoration in her eyes as she looks up at Damien. “He and Sansa met a week ago and it’s made him shy.” 

“What happened?” Jon asks curiously. He can sense a story in the way Damien studiously avoids eye contact with Sansa.

“Damien was very, very drunk and may have shed a tear or two when they were introduced.” Imani’s eyes shine, her lips tilted upwards in a mischievous smile. “I couldn’t really make out most of what he was saying but something about how great of a VP then president Sansa’s dad was, despite his, ‘caucasity,’ and how if he ever were to tarnish his body, not that he ever wants to, a tattoo of Ned Stark would definitely be an option.” 

Jon lets out a snort involuntarily before he bites his lip to keep his expression serious. He turns back to Damien, who rolls his eyes but smiles good-naturedly, hands open in concession. 

“You can laugh. It’s fine,” Damien relents. “It was stupid of me. I can take it.” He nods at Sansa. “Look, I promise I’m cooler than that normally.”

“You’re even less cool normally,” Imani quips, even as Sansa jumps to reassure Damien that she thinks he’s great and that she didn’t really didn’t mind. 

Imani and Damien start quibbling. Sansa’s eyes dance with amusement as she watches them. Jon has to look away, lest he lose himself in them. 

…

The evening churns on. The venue’s decibel level increases steadily as people down their third, fourth, or fifth drinks. Guards are let down. Laughter gets more raucous. Movements become less and less controlled.

Jon and Sansa make their move in the buzz. Sansa introduces Jon to Katie, Ali, and a string of other people of interest. And though Jon doubts most of these conversations will be lucidly remembered by the other parties the next day, they go well, and the feeling they invoke is the most important part. He knows that. 

Consequently, Jon’s feeling pretty damn good about himself when he steps into the men’s room for a breather. 

He’s washing his hands when Connor and David burst in, talking and laughing. There’s a giddiness to them, a breathlessness that Jon doesn’t quite understand. Whatever this is, Jon doesn’t want to stick around for long enough to find out. 

He’s almost made it to the door when David notices him.

“Jon, buddy,” he calls out, coming over to clap Jon on the back. “Want some?” David nods in Connor’s direction.

Jon turns, and sees that Connor is by the washbasin, pulling out a vial of white powder. Jon’s heart sinks.

“I’m good, thanks,” Jon manages, trying to keep his tone even and smile polite, even as his mind conjures up unpleasant images he’s long forgotten or buried. He remembers a withered neighbor in their apartment complex before Uncle Benjen could afford to buy a house, kids in high school who started getting nosebleeds, losing weight, their behavior becoming erratic before they vanished entirely. _Jesus fuck_. Jon looks at Connor again, really looks at him, and the pieces start coming together.

“Yeah, no worries,” David replies. “Do you mind sticking around though? We came in together and it’d be weird if you left and we stayed. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking Connor and I are up to anything suspicious.” He winks at Jon. “Especially with Cecilia’s zero-tolerance policy and all.” 

Jon glances at Connor, weighing his options. _Fuck._

“Sure,” Jon says, stuck. “Yeah.” He’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now, but it’s not like he can say no. He _needs_ Connor, and he’s made so much progress with him already. He can’t afford to lose that now. He hunkers down by the door, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“We’re just doing a bump each, anyway,” David says, lightly. He pulls out his keys, handing them to Connor. “Go ahead, man.” 

Jon averts his eyes.

“So,” David begins, studying Jon. “You’re really dating Sansa Stark, huh? That’s fucking huge, man. Congrats.”

“Thanks,” Jon replies warily, unsure of where this conversation is going but not liking it all the same.

“I mean, you won the fucking lottery, dude. Guys have been trying to bag her ever since she got to New York with no luck, and you come around and bam. You’re dating. Just like that.”

Jon grimaces, his fists clenching reflexively. _Stay fucking calm_ , he tells himself. He can’t afford to get angry. Not at David. Not with Connor two feet away.

“Granted, she is kind of psycho,” David plows on, totally oblivious to the fact that Jon’s heart is thundering in his ears and that his carefully laid-out reasoning as to why he shouldn’t pummel David into oblivion is slipping from his mind with each passing second. “And, you know, damaged goods and all. But hey, sometimes those girls are the freakiest—”

David doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, as Jon’s fist collides with his chin. Jon feels the ripple of the impact in his hand, but the sting doesn’t have time to register because he lands another blow immediately. He’s punching again and again and again. Nothing runs through his head. All he has is this singular, crystalline purpose. Red has overtaken his vision; his instincts have kicked in; this is all he knows. 

To some degree, Jon does hear Connor’s yelling, feel David’s reciprocal blows, and taste the blood in his mouth. But those sensations feel like they belong to someone else. His only focus is on David; he has no purpose but this purpose.

A door bangs open somewhere. Arms envelope him, pulling him back. He struggles against them, trying to break free, but there are too many of them and not enough of him. Faces swarm in his sight, some worried, some severe, all telling him to calm down. 

He blinks once. David leaves his line of sight, led out of the crowded restroom. Jon’s breathing evens. 

The rest of the world crowds back into his senses. 

_Shit._

…

They bring him to Sansa.

His heart leaps. His first thought is that she’s worried about him, because something in her expression clears when her eyes land on him. It’s wishful thinking. He knows. 

Her expression hardens into stone and she crosses her arms. He knows he’s about to be chewed out, but he doesn’t care. Seeing her is vindication, and he doesn’t regret what he’s done. As a matter of fact, he’d probably jump David, the fucker, again if he were to ever see him in the future. 

“Come on,” Sansa says, pulling him towards the dark, narrow stairwell, out of earshot of those still lingering at the scene of the event. She hands him a tissue wordlessly and he dabs at the blood on his lower lip. 

Sansa checks to make sure the door is closed firmly behind them before she whirls around. “What the fuck, Jon,” she hisses, indignance carrying her forward towards him.

He looks at her steadily. “I did what I had to do.” 

“You did what you had to do,” Sansa repeats his words back to him, slowly, as if she didn’t hear him correctly. “In what world was beating up David, Connor Carlisle’s fucking best friend might I remind you, what you had to do?”

Jon clenches his jaw. “He crossed a line.”

Sansa, ever her mother’s daughter, doesn’t roll her eyes, but the huff of air she lets out expresses her annoyance clearly enough. “Well, that doesn’t matter, does it? Because David and Connor can spin this however they want. It’s your word against theirs and your word means jack shit compared to someone like Connor’s.” 

She’s taken a step or two more towards him, close enough for him to see the rise and fall of her chest, watch the flush spread across her cheeks. Somehow, this is what riles him up. 

He can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he bites back. “How is this any different from the Tormund thing? I made you a promise, didn’t I? And I’ll stick to it even if I have to burn a bridge or two along the way.” 

“Oh my god, Jon,” Sansa exclaims, putting a hand on her forehead in frustration. “Tormund's your _friend_ , is he not? That’s a completely different story.”

“Oh, that’s _rich_ ,” Jon replies bitterly. “So trust fund babies should get a pass for shitty behavior?” 

“You know that’s not what this is about,” Sansa snaps. “And why couldn’t you have just said something, instead of beating the shit out of him? This isn’t a dingy sports pub in rural Maine, Jon. The rules are different here, so you _have_ to adapt.” 

“Okay.” Jon tries, and fails, to keep the anger out of his voice. She’s opened an old wound, unlocking a torrent of emotions and memories he usually keeps tucked safely away. “Okay, I see how it is.” He knows he’s about to say too much, but he can’t stop. “You think you’re too good for me. I’m still just some hick to you, am I not? The boy from across the river living in a cramped apartment because that’s all his uncle’s fireman salary could afford.” He hates that his insecurities are oozing out, that he’s saying any of this to her. “And I sure as hell don't belong at your lavish galas and fundraisers and whatever the fuck else, right? As if I ever asked for any of this.”

Sansa opens her mouth, then closes it, temporarily stymied. 

“And don’t drag Maine into this.” Jon plows on. “Not when Maine made you. Made us both. If the kind of guys that go to that dingy sports pub you turn your nose up at hadn’t voted your dad into office, you wouldn’t be here today.” 

Jon knows it’s a low blow, but he’s just not thinking anymore. There’s no backing down, not with Sansa inches away, eyes flaring. He doesn’t know what he wants but he does know that he wants to do _something_ , and the only way he can possibly let that manifest is in his words.

Sansa’s livid, her tone deadly. “Don’t you fucking—”

She stops abruptly, her mouth snapping shut. Her eyes are fixed upwards and behind him. Jon turns to see what she’s looking at.

It’s Damien. He peers down at them awkwardly from the top of the staircase, the door to the roof shutting behind him. “Hey. Are you guys good?”

Damien’s tone makes Jon realize how loud he and Sansa had been getting in their disagreement. His eyes flicker between them, and Jon realizes just how close they are to each other. They’re both breathing heavily. Sansa instinctively takes two steps back from him. Jon’s world cools again.

“We’re fine,” Sansa says, plastering a smile onto her face. “Jon?”

“Yeah, everything’s all good,” Jon affirms. Though, come to think of it, the ribs on his left side are starting to hurt—he suspects bruised ribs. His lower lip stings too, and there’s a dull throbbing in his knuckles. 

Damien doesn’t seem convinced. “Great,” he replies slowly, brows still furrowed in concern. “Well. Imani is doing damage control upstairs. She sent me to get you, Sansa.” 

Damien deliberately avoids eye contact with Jon. He gets the message.

“And I’m to go home,” Jon infers. It makes sense. This is a mess of his own making.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Damien replies, looking apologetic. “You should get some rest anyway. I’m sure you’re exhausted. Here, I’ll walk you out.” 

“I don’t—” Sansa begins, before Damien shakes his head slightly, bringing her to a halt.

“You guys can talk later. We don’t want anyone coming away with the wrong impression.” He says this lightly, but Jon hears the warning in his voice, and Sansa evidently does too. She lets out a huff of protest but complies. Jon hears the muffled sound of her heels on the carpeted steps, then she pulls the door open and the sound of overlapping voices wafts in from the roof. The door shuts behind her and it’s quiet again. 

“Ready to go?” Damien asks.

Jon nods, and they begin their descent to the ground floor.

Damien glances at Jon from the corner of his eye. “Seriously, J, are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Jon replies. “Just some minor cuts and bruises.” It’s certainly not his first scuffle, and definitely not his last. 

Damien smiles, invigorated. “Of course, man. Let’s be honest. That was fucking nuts. But you just earned my respect in a major way. I’ve seen the other guy and he looks absolutely bodied.” 

Jon doesn’t quite know how to respond to that so he just doesn’t. The glee in Damien’s expression evaporates.

“Hey, everything’ll be all good, man. Sansa knows what she’s doing up there. Plus, tomorrow, someone’ll leave their husband for a 22-year-old personal trainer and this’ll be old news.” 

“Let’s hope,” Jon replies wryly. Something tells him New Yorkers have a long memory. 

“If we will it, it’ll happen,” Damien declares. 

They’ve reached the door on the first floor. Regular patrons eat inside the restaurant, completely oblivious to the events upstairs. _There really are two different worlds in New York_ , Jon muses. There’s the everyman’s world, a concrete jungle of skyscrapers, grimy subway cars, and drinks on weekends. Then there’s the other world—banquet halls, Cadillac Escalades, and private parties, out of sight in the spaces between the rest of the city. 

Jon bids Damien goodbye and steps back out into the street, which pays him no mind. He can hear the busy traffic on Lexington Avenue, half a block away, as normal people go about their lives, impervious to the world of wealth and politics hidden away from them. He walks in that direction, blending back into anonymity. He thinks that this is probably where he truly belongs. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, whatever the heck was going on with commas before has been fixed! It’s what I get for not double-checking my work I guess. Also, I am so sorry that this chapter took forever; I had some real life stuff to work through. But rest assured, I know exactly where this story is going and exactly how we’re gonna get there. All I ask for is a lil bit of patience. Anyway, thanks for your kudos and comments and hope you guys like this chapter!!  
> \- Ruth is Sansa’s therapist (from Chapter Three)  
> \- Think of The Spider as a tabloid newspaper along the lines of Daily Mail or Us Weekly

“You look surprised to see me.”

They’re standing on the sidewalk, just outside of Jon’s apartment building, down the block from Elizabeth Street Garden. It’s a beautiful area, and Sansa can see why Jon picked it. Located in-between the east and west sides of downtown Manhattan, Nolita really embodies the best of both of those worlds. It’s charming, like nearby West Village and Soho, with tree-lined streets and trendy boutiques housed in ornate brick buildings. At the same time, however, Nolita has a grittiness now gone from those other two neighborhoods—a smattering of graffiti, soot, and grime, and an honest unabashedness to it that matches Jon perfectly. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. After what happened yesterday, I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Sansa has about ten comebacks for that. _And miss a chance to see Ghost? No way,_ is one. _Happy to prove you wrong then,_ is another. She scraps both, opting to lower her chin and fold her arms across her chest instead.

“We made a deal, didn’t we? Signed our names and everything. I can disregard my own personal feelings about yesterday for the sake of our pact.” 

“Okay, fair,” Jon says, and she doesn’t miss the way his lips quirk upwards slightly as he looks at her. He’s been doing that more often recently, and she can’t quite figure out what it means. He winces slightly, touching the cut on his lip. 

“Jon,” Sansa begins, unsure of where exactly they stand and how to say what she needs to. She can’t get a good read on him right now. His expression is so often inscrutable to her—his eyebrows furrowed slightly, his lips pressed together. She goes for peace. “I’m sorry about what I said last night.” She’d regretted it immediately. It was such a Cersei-esque thing to say, and that wasn’t a road Sansa wanted to go down at all. 

“It’s fine,” Jon says. “Really. I overreacted. And I should’ve kept my cool with David too. I’m sorry you had to do damage control yesterday.”

“It’s not something I’m totally unused to,” Sansa smiles wryly. He’s not the only person she knows who flies off the handle easily. Her siblings alone are more than enough to keep her busy. 

They’re both silent for a moment. Sansa chews on Jon’s words more carefully. “You don’t regret it.”

“No,” Jon confirms. “I don’t regret it.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “Look, we’re not always gonna agree on things. That’s expected, right?”

“Right,” Sansa affirms. “But we’re in this together.” Neither of them are the compromising type, but they’re still a team, and that means accepting that they’ll both do things the other might disagree with. 

Jon nods solemnly and they both grow quiet again. The city around them fills their pause—laughing brunch-goers pass behind them and someone’s speakers warble Jason Mraz off in the distance. 

“Promise you’ll at least try to listen to me more,” Sansa says, half-serious, but also hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

Jon laughs. “Promise you’ll at least try to be understanding when I don’t.” 

“Sure.” Sansa holds out her hand. “Let’s shake on it.”

Jon takes her hand. His is calloused while hers is smooth, cold while hers is warm, but they both shake the same firm and even way. The Ned Stark way.

When they’re done, Jon pulls the door open behind him. “Come on in.”

…

“Ghost!” Sansa exclaims as the dog bounds over to her in excitement, tail wagging at a furious pace. “I’ve missed you so much!” She kneels at the entrance of Jon’s apartment as Ghost scrambles around her, licking her chin and her hands and any other inch of her he can find.

“It’s like I don’t even exist,” Jon says in mock disappointment, shaking his head sadly. He steps past them and into his apartment.

Sansa follows, with Ghost at her heels. Her first thought as she peers around is that, like his neighborhood, Jon’s loft suits him well. It’s simple and unpretentious but spacious, with lots of windows letting light in. The only thing that catches Sansa off guard is the sheer number of people inside—cleaning, moving things around, and shuffling about the kitchen. Granted, it’s actually not that ridiculous as far as support staff goes, considering what Sansa’s seen in her life, but given that this is a loft in Nolita, not a mansion in the Hamptons, the place feels crowded. 

Jon has the decency to look guilty. “They were my father’s team. Obviously, I don’t need all this but didn’t want to fire anyone,” he explains in a hushed voice. “So I’ve retained all of them until they find something better or we can work out some other solution. Most are usually at the house on the Upper East Side, but since I don’t live there…” Jon shrugs. 

“Here you go, Mr. Snow,” a man in a white chef’s coat hands Jon a sizable picnic basket. “No pine nuts on the tahini cookies, of course, and I packed in those lemon bars you requested.”

“Lemon bars?” Sansa asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Jon’s eyes meet hers, and the slight alarm in them makes him look like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Yeah, I remember you loved them when we were young.”

“Oh, that’s passed. I hate them now,” Sansa deadpans, and both Jon and his cook visibly blanch. She backtracks immediately. “Kidding.” They both relax. “I still love them. Thanks for remembering, Jon.”

“I can take that down to the car for you, Mr. Snow.” A teenaged houseman pauses at Jon’s shoulder, looking down at the picnic basket in his hand.

“It’s fine, Max,” Jon replies. “I got it.” He glances around, knitting his eyebrows together. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Max, where’s Charles?”

“He’s at the house, Mr. Snow.”

“Okay,” Jon replies. He looks around—at the housekeepers, the two men screwing in a chandelier, his cook, Max, and the other housemen hauling in water. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Hey everyone, we’re going to Central Park for a bit.” His staff stop what they’re doing immediately, eyes trained on him expectantly. Jon turns to look at Sansa, uncertainty printed all across his face. She nods at him in encouragement. He swallows, turning back to face his crew. “Look, I know it’s Sunday. I don’t know what Charles has scheduled for you all today, but go home, guys. It’s fine. Spend some time with your families.” 

Sansa winces. That wasn’t where she expected Jon to go, at all. She refrains from saying anything though as Jon clips Ghost’s leash onto his harness and heads for the door. She follows him out, giving those she passes an apologetic smile. Behind them, Jon’s team glance at one another, unsure of how to proceed.

“I’m guessing Charles is your chief of staff?” Sansa asks, as they head downstairs. 

“Yeah,” Jon lowers his voice. “Was that…? Was I not supposed to do that?”

Sansa shakes her head softly.

“Shoot,” he says. “I'm in way over my head, aren’t I? I don’t know how I’ll ever get used to this.”

“I hope you never do,” Sansa replies. And she really means it. 

…

Sansa studies Jon during the car ride over to Central Park, even with Ghost wedged between them, partially obstructing her view. 

What she sees worries her. Jon is pale, paler than he usually is, besides the deep, dark shadows under his eyes. He’s solemn as ever, lips pressed together in silent worry as he stares blankly out the window. 

“Jon?” Sansa asks. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Jon turns to look at her. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

It’s not hard for Sansa to puzzle out why. He has to balance being a full-time business student with what he does for his VC firm—sourcing leads on potential investors, organizing and planning out his finances, and beginning to build relationships with actual startup founders. She knows his firm is always at the back of his mind, that he’s constantly worrying about it. She also knows that things will only get harder after what happened yesterday at Aretsky’s Patroon. He was already having trouble getting investors to buy in, and now… well. To them, he’s become a walking liability.

“We don’t have to do this picnic, or any other ‘date’ coming up if you’re too busy.” Sansa says firmly. “Work comes first.”

“I want to be here,” Jon reassures her, though the half-smile he gives her doesn’t quite reach the muster of his tone. “It’s good for me. Takes my mind off things for a bit.” 

“Okay,” Sansa concedes reluctantly. “But you’ll let me know if you’re burning out and you change your mind, right?” 

“Of course,” Jon replies.

She’s not quite sure she believes him.

…

They’ve just spread out their blanket on the grass near Bow Bridge and unpacked their basket when Sansa hears faint sniffling. She glances at the girl sitting on the bench nearest them, spotting familiar blonde hair and a Vilshenko jacket she could recognize anywhere. 

“Fuck.” Sansa curses. “That’s one of ours.”

“What?” Jon asks, following Sansa’s gaze.

“One of my sorority’s new pledges,” she explains, as she racks her brain for the girl’s name. _Ella._ “I’ll be right back.” 

Sansa walks over to the bench. She thinks through the best angle to approach Ella. The other girl has her head in her hands, and Sansa doesn’t want to startle her. 

“Hey Ella,” she says as she takes a seat gingerly next to her. 

Ella’s head jerks up. She takes in the sight before her, of Sansa as well as Jon and Ghost a couple feet back, who look on in confusion. They look away quickly when Ella spots them. 

“Oh my god, sorry, hi Sansa,” Ella says, quickly dabbing at her eyes carefully with the tips of her fingers, to prevent her mascara from running. “God, this is embarrassing.” 

“No, no,” Sansa reassures her. “My fault, sorry for intruding. Are you okay? What’s going on, El?”

“It’s stupid,” Ella replies, as Sansa digs through her purse, looking for her pack of tissues. “I’m fine. I’m just being dramatic.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Sansa says, holding out her tissues to the other girl. “And nothing’s too stupid to cry about.”

Ella takes a tissue with a weak smile and a murmured thanks. She folds it absentmindedly, eyes miles away. “I just—I just feel like such a failure,” Ella confides, as tears well in her eyes once more. “My parents sacrificed everything to send me here. So many people fought for me to be at this school, and how do I repay them? With a literal F on my first comp sci test. I’m such a phony.” 

“Oh honey,” Sansa says, pulling the other girl into a hug. “Listen, you’re not a phony. You deserve to be here. Trust me.”

 _Impostor syndrome_. Every fall, it rears its ugly head amongst their new freshman girls. It’s really, objectively, the worst, reducing brilliant, accomplished women to shells. It’s a tough battle, every single time. But Sansa does what she can to be the encouraging, supportive, helpful friend her sisters need. And then she can look on from the sidelines as they go on to blossom into the people they are today. 

“You’re in intro to comp sci, right? That class is notoriously difficult. I promise you you’re not the only one having trouble.” This is the first step, getting Ella to realize she’s not alone. “And hey, you still have a chance to claw your way back, right? You’ve still got a midterm, a final, and all that.”

“Yeah,” Ella sniffs, still dejected. “I guess. But I’m already in way over my head, and it only gets harder from here.”

“So make a change,” Sansa says earnestly. “Go to every single one of your professor’s office hours from here on out. It doesn’t matter if you think you’re asking dumb questions—that isn’t what determines your final grade. Ask for help. Form groups with people in your class and do the homework together.”

“Okay,” Ella says with a sigh. “I guess it just seems like so much work? Why should I bother putting in twice as much effort as everyone else just to barely keep up? Maybe I’m just, I don’t know. Not cut out for CS.”

“Maybe it’s not the right major for you, I don’t know. Only you know what’s best for you,” Sansa says. “But you don’t have much of a background in CS, I’m guessing?” When Ella nods in confirmation, Sansa continues, “So what you’re doing now is setting a foundation for yourself. You’re learning how to study properly, how to work with other people, and what the optimal amount of interaction with your professors is for you. And sure, maybe the people who’ve been programming since forever will breeze through this class based on their prior knowledge. A year or two down the line though, they’ll run into something they’ve never learned before and get stuck. But you’ll have the skills you need to tackle it.”

Ella tilts her head to the side, contemplating. “Yeah, I guess you have a point.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, alright?” Sansa says, giving the other girl a smile. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the Kappa house and we can have some ice cream or something with the girls. And if Laila, Anne, or Minji are at the house, you can talk to them too, since they’re comp sci majors.”

“Thanks,” Ella says, dabbing at her eyes again before returning Sansa’s smile with a watery one of her own. “That’s really nice of you. What about your boyfriend though? It looks like you need to get back over there.”

Sansa looks over her shoulder at Jon. He’s been joined by a group of girls, likely passing through Central Park from brunch by the looks of it, who are fawning over Ghost. Sansa doesn’t miss how one girl in particular directs furtive glances towards Jon.

Sansa’s first reaction is a twinge of annoyance, which she dismisses immediately. _Get a grip,_ she tells herself. _Just because he’s the first man to be kind to you in a long time without some nefarious agenda behind his actions doesn’t mean you have the right to latch onto him in any capacity._ Sansa sighs, making a note to herself to unpack this with Ruth at their next session.

“Give me a minute,” Sansa tells Ella.

“Jon,” Sansa calls out to him. “Could you come here for a second?”

“What’s up?” He asks as he jogs over, Ghost on his heels. 

Sansa pulls Jon to the side, just out of earshot of Ella. “I’m going to head back to Columbia with Ella, is that okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Jon says, seeming a little indignant about the fact that she even had to ask. 

“Sorry,” Sansa says, thinking back to what he’d said in the car ride over. “I know we literally just got here.”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” Jon insists. He glances over at Ella. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Is she okay?”

“Yes,” Sansa reassures him. “Or at least she will be.”

Ella’s a fighter. Sansa can already tell. She’s not too worried about her.

“You’re good at this, you know?” Jon says, eyes fixed on her intently and a slight smile on his lips, catching her completely off guard. 

“At what?”

Jon shrugs. “Taking care of people, I guess. Ella’s just one example but I’ve seen it from you over and over again. You’ll be a great president.”

Sansa feels her cheeks pinken at his words, and also at his quiet but unshakeable confidence in her. It means a lot to her, more than he probably knows. She’s been doing this for years, neither expecting nor needing praise or recognition, but boy is it affirming to get it. “Thanks, Jon.”

“Of course,” he nods, serious, again, as ever. “I’ll see you later, alright?”

He turns around, leading Ghost back to their picnic blanket. Sansa sits back down by Ella, numbly, face still warm. 

Together, Ella and Sansa watch Jon pack up his stuff. After a while, Ella muses, “He must be one special guy, if you’re choosing love over the clout of dating a SigEp or a DSig or some other frat boy.” 

Sansa laughs. “You know about that stuff already?”

Ella sighs. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

“One last piece of advice then—life is too short to get caught up in rankings and social status and all that.”

“Easier said than done,” Ella replies. 

Sansa smiles dryly. “Very much so.”

…

The Kappa Delta Pi house sits across the street from Columbia’s campus, a small but regal Beaux-Arts townhouse. Only about a dozen or so girls actually live in it, but all sisters are welcome to drop by at any moment.

When Sansa and Ella arrive, there’s a group of girls already in the basement, watching _Queer Eye_ as they do homework and chat. Sansa situates Ella on a bean bag chair and goes to grab some ice cream from the fridge. This seems to be the magic formula because soon enough, Ella is talking and laughing and smiling again. Sansa stays with her the whole afternoon, despite the pile of readings for Monday waiting for her back at her apartment. A sister in crisis comes first, always.

…

That night, Sansa is absorbed in excerpts of the Qing Code for her Chinese history elective when her phone rings. She frowns at it, unsure of who’d be calling at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night. Seeing her sister’s name clears that up immediately.

“Hey,” Sansa says. “Isn’t it like 3 a.m. in Scotland right now?” 

Arya has her own way of doing things and Sansa knows that, but she can’t help checking in anyway. 

“I’ve got stuff going on,” Arya replies vaguely. “But forget about that. I’m calling about you.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks, confused, and now, slightly uneasy. They talk fairly often, but it’s always Sansa who calls. _Something’s up_ , she thinks. 

“Do you have anything you want to tell me?” Arya asks, uncharacteristically calm. _Something’s definitely up_.

“You’re gonna have to be a little bit more specific than that,” Sansa replies, racking her brain to try to figure out what on earth this could possibly be about.

“Go to The Spider’s website,” Arya says. Sansa pulls her laptop towards her and does as she’s told. “Scroll until you see it.”

Sansa skims past articles about some celebrity feud, a reality star’s divorce, and so-and-so’s liposuction until she spots it. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Sansa Stark picnicks with new boyfriend Jon Snow in Central Park,” Arya reads out loud. 

Sansa’s heart pounds as she eyes the thumbnail of her and Jon walking near Bow Bridge. Filled with dread, Sansa clicks the hyperlink to open up the article. 

_It’s really not that bad_ , she thinks as she skims through it—just a couple snaps of them walking, sitting on their blanket, and one of them talking near Ella. _Nothing incriminating, thank god_. The article is by a French writer and the images are from a French paparazzi site. _Interesting._ There’s a sentence or two about the Targaryens, and of course, there’s an obligatory mention at the end about how she hasn’t dated anyone since Joffrey, but besides that it’s rather mundane. 

_Why now?_ Sansa wonders. The press mostly lost interest in her after she and Joffrey broke up and the Starks left the White House. Never in a million years did she think her and Jon’s “relationship” would be newsworthy. She never would’ve even considered it, if that had been the case. 

A million other questions pop up in Sansa’s mind. _How did Arya find out? Has she told anyone else? Who else has seen this?_ But the most pressing question, still, is _why._

“Tell me you’re not dating Jon, Sansa. That this is just some mistake,” Arya demands.

Sansa doesn’t reply, sinking back into her chair. _Holy fuck._ She should give Varys a call.

“Also, don’t even think about hanging up and calling Jon, if this is true. Robb is on the phone with him right now. We’ll compare after, and we’ll know if your stories don’t match up. Just be straight up with me, Sansa. Come on.” 

“Look, Jon and I should really talk to the both of you together,” Sansa says, a concession, but one she has to make. She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on. There are too many moving parts to this, too many elements to sort through. _I need Jon_ , she realizes, with a start. _I can’t sort this out without him._

“No way. Just tell me the truth, okay? Did The Spider fuck up? Or have we entered some weird parallel universe where you and Jon are actually dating? What the actual fuck is going on here?” Anger cracks through Arya’s voice. She’s become an expert at being cold instead of angry, so Sansa knows that that means this has really gotten under her sister’s skin.

Arya takes a deep breath, then another one. “I just—I thought after what happened with Baelish, after what we did together, we said we wouldn’t keep things from each other anymore.”

Sansa’s heart hangs heavy in her chest. No matter what she says, by the time this call ends, she’ll have lost the trust they’d slowly built together over the past few years. Just like that. 

Sansa chews on her lower lip, trying to think of what to say to let her sister down easy when a phone rings somewhere in the apartment. Sansa hears muffled rustling in the next room and realizes, with a start, that Brienne is home.

Brienne pops her head into Sansa’s room, mouthing, “It's Jon.”

“How does Jon have your number?” Sansa whispers, confused, hand cupped over her phone’s mic.

“Imani mentioned the fight when she was dropping your stuff off this morning so I sent him a congratulatory text. For his good work.” Brienne says.

Sansa rolls her eyes, but can’t help smiling. The fight. It already feels like it happened an eternity ago. 

“Sansa, you still there?” Arya asks. “Hello?”

“I am. Just give me two minutes, alright?” Sansa says, before muting the call.

“You good?” Brienne asks, eyes full of concern. 

“Yes,” Sansa affirms, as she takes the phone in Brienne’s outstretched hand. She flashes Brienne a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Brienne nods solemnly before she leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Jon?” Sansa confirms, holding Brienne’s phone up to her ear.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m calling on my landline, by the way. Your brother is currently ranting to my cell—” Jon brings his phone close to prove his point, and Sansa catches an earful of Robb, swearing at a breakneck pace. “So I muted myself and thought I should give you a call.”

“Clever of you to go through Brienne,” Sansa concedes, impressed. Then the seriousness of their predicament at hand hits her again, a giant weight on her shoulders. “Arya’s calling me right now, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. I told her two minutes.”

“We should tell them,” Jon declares firmly. 

“Jon—” Sansa begins. 

“I know you said we should try to limit the number of people we tell. But it’s like you said, Robb and Arya are both far away. And don’t they have a right to know?” 

“I agree with you actually,” Sansa replies. Jon falls silent immediately. _In surprise,_ she guesses. “They’ll never let this relationship continue if they think it’s real.” 

“Exactly,” Jon says.

Sansa is silent for a beat, frowning blankly at her laptop. “We’ll be doubling the amount of people who know besides us—including Talisa, who I’m sure Robb will tell. I mean I trust them, but the more people know, the more likely it is that others will find out, even just statistically speaking.”

She doesn’t say what logically follows from that out loud, but Jon’s silence tells her he’s thinking the same thing—if word ever got out, they’d both be completely and devastatingly humiliated.

It’s a lose-lose situation. But Sansa supposes they have to do what’s fair here. Her siblings deserve to know.

As if he’s reading her thoughts, Jon jumps in to reassure her. “We’re making the right choice here.”

Sansa hums in agreement, unable to find the confidence to concur with him in words.

“And if people do find out, we can pin this on me. I need this relationship more than you do, anyway.”

Sansa has to laugh at that. “That’s noble of you, Jon, even if I disagree. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?”

Jon agrees, and their conversation turns to logistics. They decide that the best course of action is a group video call with Robb and Arya. They hang up so that they can return to their separate calls with Robb and Arya, with the intent of bringing the conversations together.

After Sansa returns Brienne’s phone, she picks her conversation with her sister back up again. “Arya, are you still there?”

“Yeah, and I’m pissed,” Arya replies, stifling a yawn. 

“I talked to Jon,” Sansa admits.

“I guessed as much.” 

“We’re gonna explain everything together, okay? I know I’ve been pretty opaque but Jon’s gonna set up a group FaceTime and we’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

There’s a long silence on the other line. Finally, Arya sighs, “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But no bullshit, alright? Tell us what’s really going on.”

“No bullshit,” Sansa promises. And she means it.

…

“Jon and I are dating, but it’s a front,” Sansa jumps in immediately as her siblings’ faces pop up in the call. She knows how important it is to lay everything out first, before they dive into explanations and excuses. Robb is still visibly fuming, so she knows that these first few seconds are crucial. “Jon and I are just pretending to date.”

“Why?” Arya demands. She’s walking in the dark, face illuminated by passing streetlights, somewhere in St. Andrews. 

“Yeah,” Robb adds. He’s in a suit and obviously at work, tucked away in an unused conference room somewhere, in a skyscraper out in Singapore. “How the fuck does that benefit either of you in any way?”

Sansa looks at Jon, who’s perched on a couch in his loft, Ghost probably next to him. He nods at her to go ahead.

“You know how I’m gunning for president in my sorority?”

…

Arya accepts their situation more readily than Robb does, something Sansa’s not totally surprised by. This acceptance doesn’t come without its testiness, of course. Arya expresses her discomfort with the concept of them dating very plainly, and also makes her disappointment in not being told sooner obvious. But when they’ve wrapped up, she’s fairly calm about it.

Robb, on the other hand, resists the news, grumbling and discontent. Sansa can forgive him for that. He’s always disregarded the politics of the circles they run in, relying on his wits, charm, and pure energy to get by. And for the most part, it’s worked. But there’s a reason why he was cast out, allowed to pack up and move halfway across the globe. The waters are too choppy for him here.

So Sansa sits and waits for Robb to call as she knows he will, right after they hang up as a group. 

“Hey,” he says, in his brisk manner. He’s become ever more like himself since the move, and since he started his glamorous investment banking career. Sansa reminds herself that him leaving wasn’t a bad thing. New York isn’t the be-all and end-all it’s made out to be. This was what was best for her brother. 

Robb dives right in, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Look, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m not comfortable with this. But I… I mean, are you?”

Sansa’s startled. This wasn’t where she expected the conversation to go at all.

“Yeah,” Sansa replies slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Robb pauses. “I know things haven’t been easy for you since Dad took the VP job. And I’ve said this a million times but I’ll say it again; I fucked up by not being there, with the Joffrey shit. And the Ramsay Bolton shit.” He adds for good measure, “And the stuff with Baelish too.”

“Robb, seriously, it’s fine,” Sansa replies. He’s carried his guilt with him for years now, but this was out of his control. He was at Exeter first, then Harvard when she was in DC. And the summer before she started school at Columbia, he was halfway across the globe in Singapore. There was only so much he could do. Her trauma falls squarely on the shoulders of the people who caused it, not those who couldn’t protect her from it. 

“It’s not,” Robb insists, before his tone softens. “I’m sorry you had to go through any of that, Sansa. I wish there was something I could do to take it all away.”

Sansa knows that when he says that, he imagines a vigilante kind of justice—getting to beat each and every person who’d harmed their family to a pulp. But it wouldn’t be enough. And he knows that too.

“Listen, when you and Jon are pretending, if he ever does something that makes you uncomfortable, you let me know, alright? I’ll sort him out real quick.”

“Oh my god, Robb,” Sansa rolls her eyes. “He’s the one you should worry about when it comes to that, not me.” 

“Really,” Robb muses. “Well, don’t go overboard with it, alright? Or else I’ll have to beat him up anyway.”

“You’d have to be here to do that though, wouldn’t you?” Sansa teases, grateful for the lighter turn their conversation’s taken. And she does miss him, a lot. It’s been almost a year since they last saw each other. 

Robb laughs mischievously. “Be careful what you wish for, Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided not to specify Ghost's breed on purpose! I have one in mind but wanted to leave that up to your imagination :)


End file.
